A Triangle of Many Sides: Book One
by Scribbler
Summary: Family relationships in FFVII are always strained. If your dad doesn't want to turn you into a living weapon, your mom is an alien, or everyone died in tragic circumstances you blame yourself for. Book 1 of 3: Precanon. Zerith & CissZack. COMPLETE!
1. Prologue: Leader

**Disclaimer: **Epically not mine.

**A/N: **This is something of a special project, as it started life as a three-chapter fic called 'Triangle', written several years ago, around the time I first got into FFVII and was fascinated by the connections between Zack, Aerith and Cloud. That original fic can still be found on FFN, but the idea itself has since grown into substantially more. Though it still focuses a lot on Cloud, Zack and Aerith, the scope has widened to include most, if not all, of the cast, including some secondary characters such as the Turks. Though I haven't quite finished, it currently stands at 318 pages and spans most of the timeline. All I ask is that you please give it a chance to make sense and it will.

Also, this fic is extra special to me because it is my 400th here on FFN.

* * *

><p><em><strong>A Triangle of Many Sides <strong>_

**© Scribbler, 2011**

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue: Leader<strong>

* * *

><p><em>2000 B.G.<em>

Elfé leaned heavily on her staff, trying to ignore the ache in her bones. It felt like the marrow had been sucked right out of them, pulled from under her fingernails and through her pores. Everything hurt, from her toenails to her scalp. Even her skin felt like it had been peeled off and reattached wrong. Two things kept her on her feet, pretending she was fine: her people looking to her for guidance and the fact that, if she could feel her aches and pains, she was still alive. Others hadn't been so lucky. If she showed weakness now it would be spitting on their sacrifice.

The battle had been hard. In all their long history there had never been another like it. Not even the civil war, when Cetra fought Cetra about whether to settle or keep to life as nomads. Cetra were peaceful. They always preferred solving a problem without violence.

The civil war had been millennia ago. Most of the Old Magic from that time had now been lost. Elfé and her people had thinner blood than their ancestors, the power in them fragile in comparison. They weren't as weak as their genetic cousins, the humans, but that wasn't really a comfort. Humans were blind and deaf to anything beyond their five physical senses; insensate to the natural rhythms of the Planet without signs from nature to guide them. Most were greedy to the point of cruelty and couldn't see the patterns of life around them if they jumped up and bit them.

If the Cetra had been stronger, they wouldn't have lost so many of their number to JENOVA's virus. Fewer of Elfé's friends would have morphed into monsters and gone rampaging through the rest. The leaders from ancient times would have known what to do. They wouldn't have been driven to desperation and heresy like Elfé.

Cetra magic wasn't meant to be used for fighting. It went against everything they held dear. Yet she had forced her people to do it anyway.

Had it been worth it? JENOVA was gone. That was good. Yet so many of her people had died to make that happen. Victory was a human value. Nature didn't care about victory; it cared about keeping the balance of life, death, magic and everything in between. What was victory worth when you couldn't share it with your friends and family? Already the survivors were talking, wondering if there hadn't been another way.

Guilt gnawed on Elfé like hungry wolves around sickly prey. She was so _tired_. All the same, she couldn't afford to weaken. She was leader. Leaders had to be strong so the rest could be weak. Leaders had to shoulder everybody's grief except their own. The leader had to be practical when all she really wanted was to mourn the friends whose lives she had spent like blowing puffs of smoke in a rainstorm. Someone had to take command during the battle and of the plan beforehand. She'd done those two. Now to take care of the third: the aftermath. This should have been the easy part. JENOVA was gone. The virus was gone. They were alive.

It wasn't easy at all. A survivor came towards her. Elfé straightened. Her bones shrieked and her head spun, but she met his eyes until he looked away.

"Elfé, we need to find shelter." His voice was a croak from chanting shielding spells for hours while JENOVA fought to break their lines. Elfé recognised him as part of the third wave. JENOVA nearly got to that line. None of the first wave had made it, and at least half of the second were gone.

"How are the wounded?" she asked.

"They'll live. For now."

More deaths to add to her conscience. Bitterness spiked in Elfé. She hoped bad things happened to the humans whose knee-jerk fear of the virus had made them kill _all_ the Cetra they could find, not just the infected. If the scattered Cetra tribes' numbers had been stronger when they banded together to go after JENOVA, maybe their losses wouldn't be so devastating now. Maybe the added strength would have compensated for their weakened magic and the rest wouldn't have had to work so hard to contain and then seal the demon. Even as Elfé faced off against JENOVA in the final sealing, she had been aware of collapsing figures around her. From the corner of her eyes she had seen their fleeing souls, and afterwards seen the crumpled corpses around the Protective Circle. Perhaps if there had been more of them, someone else would have been leader. She wouldn't have had to grasp the nettle nobody else wanted to touch. She wouldn't have gathered what was left of their people, disparate tribes still mourning their dead, and bullied them into what they'd all privately thought would be suicide.

She'd felt the minds of the dying. She would never forget that. It scraped along under her skin; a prickly knowledge she would never shake off. She would never feel clean again after what she had done to them.

She was the leader, so of course she'd volunteered to be the hub for the magic their Protective Circle gathered right out of the Planet's core. It had been a dangerous, last-ditch attempt to defeat JENOVA. Lifestream wasn't meant to be pulled out into the open that way, let alone used so unnaturally. Cetra magic usually just skimmed the surface so the balance wasn't disturbed. As a rebellious teenager, Elfé had delved too deep into that raw power and nearly fried her mind. This time they'd gone even deeper, yanking out bits of energy like plaiting a lasso from uprooted grass and using it to rope a bucking horse.

Elfé just hoped Gaia could forgive them. Something of a vain hope, since she couldn't even forgive herself. As the hub, she had channelled most of the energy the Cetra brought up and had directed it at JENOVA. Elfé should have died, or at least her brain should've after so much trauma. Instead, it had been sharpened to a lethal point as the magic scoured her from the inside out. Everyone involved had passed through her mind like grain pouring from one bag into another, beautiful and fresh … and then gone.

Until the day she did finally die, Elfé knew she would have no peace. She had led them all to that. People. Individuals. She wasn't a warmonger who saw things in terms of numbers and acceptable losses. Cetra weren't _meant _to fight. She had forced the issue, and them. She hadn't seen any other way. It had been her idea, and her drive that made it reality.

Was there even a place in the Promised Land for someone like her? Humans were the warlike ones. Their attachment to territory made them aggressive. The Cetra were supposed to be more enlightened, but when it came down to it, Elfé had acted like a human. She had made the tough choices nobody else wanted to make. Now the disaster had been averted, she was left to wonder whether those choices had really been hers to make at all.

"Elfé?"

She blinked back to the present. "Uh, send scouts. Find the least tired and send them out on a rota. Look at the mountain range, not the wasteland. We'll need somewhere we can defend in a pinch."

As if any of them were actually capable of fighting anymore. A gaggle of humans armed with feathers could have decimated the Cetra right now, much less ones with clubs or blades.

The man nodded and moved away. Elfé waited until he was gone before sighing and letting her fingers grip her staff so tight her knuckles blanched. A wave of pain washed over and through her. Her teeth clenched. She waited for it to pass.

She moved away from the others, to the crest of the hill where the least injured had been working since sun-up. It was nearly sundown now. She crested the rise and half-skidded a few feet down the mud on the other side before she could stop herself. Her knees nearly buckled, and not from exhaustion.

"Gaia forgive me ..." she gasped.

Her eyes stung. She was the leader – the first to unite so many tribes in hundreds of years – and leaders had to be strong.

But she'd never asked to be leader. It was just necessity when humans left only five of her tribe alive and JENOVA infected four of them. She had lost her husband to that creature. She should have felt vindicated. She had avenged him. Instead, all she felt was tired and miserable, as if the Cetra had been defeated.

"I only did what I thought was right." Her eyes filled with tears as she surveyed rows upon rows of freshly turned dirt. Like all living things, Cetra returned to the Planet when they died. Life grew from death just like death followed life. "I only did what seemed right."

A mother cried beside a tiny grave. A man tenderly stroked a pile of mud that covered someone he loved. All around her, people grieved. Elfé's new senses caught their feelings like magical spiderwebs.

"I was wrong," she whispered. "We're too few. How can we survive now? I made a mistake. We should have done like the humans and hidden. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry …"

Was this the end of the Cetra?

The ground beneath Elfé seemed to pulse. She closed her eyes, green lights flickering behind her lids. Slowly her shoulders eased. The lines around her mouth relaxed. Voices no ear could hear gave her a message from the souls rejoining the Lifestream. A sense of peace suffused her. She suddenly remembered her father pulling her back when her foolishness nearly killed her, and how he had stroked her hair until she stopped trembling. When she thought of her stupidity back then, she never remembered that part.

When she reopened her eyes they were the same shade of green they had always been. To an observer, she had just blinked a bit longer than usual. Yet some of the grief-inspired dullness had been erased, making them seem brighter.

Her belly prickled.

"I see," she murmured. "Not an end. Just another beginning."

_Something like that_, replied a voice as old as time itself. _Now stop apologising and get on with living the life you fought for. What was the point of fighting for it if you're just going to waste it moping? _

Months later, as she held the baby that had outlived her husband before it was even born, Elfé thought back to that moment at the edge of the battlefield. She looked down at the crown of her baby's head, remembering all the lives that had been spent to make a world where babies could be born safely, away from the shadow of JENOVA. It had been worth it after all. She had made the right decision to end the threat before it cost them everything.

She didn't know the threat wasn't gone at all, or that JENOVA and the conflict with her really had cost the Cetra everything after all.

* * *

><p>.<p> 


	2. Hojo: Black Sheep

.

* * *

><p><strong>1. Hojo: Black Sheep<strong>

* * *

><p>They called him 'freak' behind his back. It wasn't half as bad as what they called him to his face. They thought his glasses meant he couldn't hear, or maybe they just didn't care. He was a scrawny boy; a weedy specimen whose limbs got gangly but never filled out the way his father promised they would. When he ran it was like a puppet with tangled strings. When he jogged he thought his teeth might rattle right out of his skull. His father insisted he lift weights when he was a teenager. He made his arms sore with dumbbells and nearly choked to death when the barbell caught him across his throat. None of ti helped. He was destined to fulfil the part of 'nerd' in the school cast list.<p>

What could he do? Bullies made a beeline for him no matter what he did. He couldn't fight back. It was pathetic when he tried. He could throw words – nobody thought up witty ripostes the way he could – but the fastest insult in the world was just an invitation for violence. What was the point when his classmates' wittiest comeback was a fist to the face?

He withdrew into himself. By the time puberty really got going he could go whole days without saying a word to anyone. His mother worried about him, but she was an equally weedy woman – in body and in mind. If she ever had an original thought her head would probably explode. His father was from the 'cruel to be kind' school of parenting. He thought ice-water baths and regular beatings were good for a boy.

"Keeps you on your toes," he barked as he poured in another bucket. He didn't get the irony. "Now stay on your tush and tough it out, m'boy. Real men can take harsh conditions. Why, when I was in the service, we thought nothing of this sort of thing. Nothing at all! We went swimming in ice floes, and then went for a six mile run – in the nude!"

"Y-Yes, F-Father." _Which is why you have so many health problems now, you idiot. _

"Speak up, boy! Don't sound like such a ninny all your life!"

"Y-Yes, s-sir."

"What?"

"YES, SIR!"

His father was a bluff old cove who liked nothing more than to knock back drinks and shout the world going to wrack and ruin. A fine figure in his youth, he had gone to seed as he got older. While he could probably still punch any opponent into next week, he now lived through the younger generation and was ashamed of his son for not being a warrior worthy of inheriting his name.

"Boys should be boys," he frequtly yelled at his wife. "Not blithering little girls in shorts! You mollycvoddle the lad too damn much!"

Sometimes his mother tried to defend him to his father. It rarely worked. She was so _wishy-washy_. "Yes darling, of course; but if he's truly unhappy at that school, maybe we should think about perhaps, you know, maybe pulling him out …"

"Unhappy? _Unhappy_? Of course he's unhappy. That's the bloody _point_! Unhappiness builds character; toughens the soul, the nerve, the spirit and everything else. Unhappiness makes you want to _get _happy, which makes you want to get stronger. It should make him want to fight, damn it!Otherwise he'll grow up to be one of those useless, touchy-feely, thin-skinned little nobodies. I want him to be a _man, _you stupid woman, not some arty farty parody of one. No son of mine is going to grow up a failure."

"I'm not a failure," he muttered in the privacy of his room, nursing black eye after cut after laceration; remembering thump after punch after kick. "I'm not a failure. I'm _not_." It became his mantra. The worse the treatment he received from his bullies and his father, the more he repeated it. "I'm not a failure. I'm not a _failure_. I'm _not_ a failure. _I'm_ not a failure."

He grew to loathe the weak-willed, strong-bodied bullies. His father's image of what he should be became everything he struggled to avoid. If his father wanted him to be strong in body but weak in mind, he decided to do exactly the opposite. He wasn't a failure, and he would prove it – just not in the way the old idiot expected.

Like many tough men, his father feared intelligent people. They made him feel inferior, so he belittled them to cover his feelings. What better way to retaliate than to become the thing his father hated most. He could use it to free himself of the man's controlling fist.

So he worked harder than anybody could have predicted, studied harder than anybody in the history of his school. The place was geared towards people who built their muscles more than their brains. His teachers, jaded after years of heavy-duty boys they were told to give passing grades no matter what, were thrilled to teach someone who actually wanted to learn. Having a scholar in their ranks confused the other boys, plus several members of senior management. He shot through their defences before they realised what was happening and stood out like a solar flare in a clear night sky.

"I'm not a failure. I'm not a _failure_. I'm _not_ a failure. _I'm_ not a failure."

The governors and luminaries at the graduation ceremony couldn't help but notice him, especially since their final exam scores appeared on the digital board above them when their names were called.

"Hojo!" proclaimed the valedictorian. "One hundred percent pass rate, with distinction in physics, chemistry, maths, further maths, maths mechanics, statistics, biology, human biology, biological sciences …"

The litany went on for nearly half a minute. The audience's collective jaw dropped. They were all wondering what the hell a boy like him was doing at this school. Shouldn't he have run off to one of the brain-box academies years ago? His kind were usually rooted out long before they made it to graduation.

"But he's going to be a military man," his father said at the post-graduation party. He was holding court in his usual bullish way. He actually attempted to put an arm around his son's shoulders. "Our family have all been military men. It's tradition."

Hojo slipped free of him. "I can assure you, sir, I am not going to join the military," he said calmly. He always called his father sir, but managed to make it sound like an insult. "Tradition is for idiots who can't think outside the box. I am going to be a scientist. I am going to research how to identify weakness in humans -" He looked directly at his father, allowing the coldness of a thousand ice-water baths to seep into his stare. It had never worked before, but here, like this, in public, it made his father flinch. "- and I am going to erase them."

"Preposterous! Playing god with a scalpel? I won't have any son of mine –"

"Then I won't be a son of yours."

"Preposterous! _Preposterous_! I won't have it. I simply won't have it."

In the end he didn't get a say. A well-placed drop of the right drug in his brandy and it looked exactly like cardiac arrest. The extra inches around his father's belly removed any suspicion. Too many big dinners and after-dinner drinks, people said. He was a heart attack waiting to happen – sad but not unexpected. His mother died 'from grief' a few days later. Devoted herself to her husband, those same people said. Small wonder that she couldn't live without him.

They had no idea. They never had.

_Idiots_, Hojo thought, not savagely, but almost … disappointed.

Had part of him been hoping for more? He truly was surrounded by imbeciles. Humanity was diseased. So predictable. It needed to be reset. It needed to be streamlined, the bad elements cut away, like he had cut away inessential parts of his personality to get to this point. Sympathy and regret were useless. He had experience in these matters; he was a living success story. He had plans.

Oh yes. Such plans.

_I'm not a failure. I'm __**not**__ a failure. I'm not a __**failure**__. __**I'm**__ not a failure._

"I'm not the failure," he said, changing the wording at last. "I'm here to erase the failures."

He set out to do just that; an endless pursuit of perfection that always seemed to elude his grasp. It didn't matter whether he trampled others along the way. They weren't important – or if they were, they still weren't as important as him. they couldn't measure up to him or his genius, so what did he care about them? His plans were paramount. _He _was paramount.

Years after his graduation, when he was so far along his path to greatness he could barely see the starting point anymore, he remembered his father's words at that party. He was standing in the lab, making notes on a sheet, when the memory suddenly surged into his mind as clearly as if it had happened only a few seconds ago.

"_Preposterous! Playing god with a scalpel?"_

Playing god? He looked up at tubes filled with men and other bipedal things. Hardly. Only fools played. Serious men just got on with it.

* * *

><p>.<p> 


	3. Cid: Dreamer

.

* * *

><p><strong>2. Cid: Dreamer<strong>

* * *

><p>"Hey, Cid, you coming to the playground or what?"<p>

"No point in asking him, dude. All he ever does it sit on the seesaw like a noob."

"Totally. He just, like, stares at the clouds all day."

"Sounds freaky."

"Is he slow or something?"

"As if. He _is _cracked in the head, though. Total freakazoid."

"Just don't let him hear you say that, or he'll hit you so hard your frigging ancestors won't be able to plant baby seeds!"

Cid scowled to himself. While his rep was a useful tool for keeping people off his back, he hated it when people talked like he wasn't there. Maybe those boys were just too stupid to realise sound carried across distances, and a classroom wasn't exactly a desert that sucked voices away on the wind. He stared studiously out the window, arms folded. He affected teenage boredom so convincingly it was almost a shock to pull back and remind himself he _wasn't _angsting about regular teenage problems. He didn't have time to angst about zits, girls, or hair in funny places. There was too much other stuff to think about – much more _interesting_ stuff!

When he looked up, he wasn't staring at the clouds. At least, not in the way those idiots thought. While they were busy trying to look up girls' skirts and see who could spit furthest off the school balconies, he was busy figuring out trajectories and weight ratios for getting a hunk of hollow metal into the sky and making it stay there.

The dynamics of flying fascinated him. He could understand birds after he researched bone density and feather design. Nature had outdone itself when it created birds – except maybe chocobos, but those nasty flightless fuckers were a whole other story. Manmade flight, however, was where his imagination really took wing.

Planes and airships were ridiculous. How could anything so heavy act like it weighed nothing at all? His classmates didn't think about it, of course. They were a bunch of fucktards. They didn't care, and thought him weird for wanting to know how it all worked. There was plenty of time for 'all that school junk' later on, they said whenever they needed an extra soccer player and Cid didn't want to play.

Nobody called him a wuss, in case he pounded them. They practised who could throw the best punch, everyone knew who was actually best, so they competed for second place without saying the words. Still, they all thought it loud and clear. Cid Highwind was a weirdo, one best left alone if you didn't want him to macramé your face for looking at him wrong. .

He wasn't even a teacher's pet to balance out his weird fascination with learning. He only liked learning about things that lent themselves to the science of flying. His art and literature teachers despaired. The music teacher only gave him the triangle to play in school recitals. He annoyed the others, sometimes just by being in the room. They hated how he stared distractedly out of the window, knowing that if they reprimanded him for not paying attention he would ask them some genuinely intelligent question they couldn't answer. He wasn't trying to be cheeky, he genuinely wanted to know, but that didn't make it any less humiliating when the rest of the students realised he had flummoxed the teacher and broke into excited muttering that lasted the rest of the day.

Cid Highwind developed a problem with authority figures from a young age – mainly because, right from the start, they all had a problem with him. He ended up reflecting their aggravation right back at them, coming across as surly and uncommunicative when all he really wanted was someone to _talk to_ about the really interesting stuff.

He didn't bother seeking out others to talk, but there came a time when his head was so bursting with ideas, and the library no longer provided enough answers to his questions. He just _had _to go to a real person, to quiz them about possibilities beyond just regular flight.

When he first mentioned the moon stuff, they _really_ looked at him like he was a crackpot.

"Don't be foolish, boy," said his history teacher. "Nobody has ever flown to the moon. It's impossible."

"So is taking a lump of steel into the air with just a few itsy-bitsy propellers and a furnace engine," he muttered in reply. "_Sir_."

His teachers all wrote 'argumentative' and 'confrontational' on his report after that. Even the science and engineering teachers had all had enough of him.

It was a good thing his parents didn't give a damn what their weirdo son got up to. As long as he didn't upset the balance of their quiet, orderly lives, he could think the moon was made of cheese, for all they cared. They ignored letters from school in case they had to actually _do_ something with – or about – their only son. They most they said to him was an order to put the kettle on, and _please _make the tea right this time.

As a teenager, Cid was embarrassed to think how he used to practise tea-making in an effort to please them. Before he realised nothing he did ever would, he used to get up in the night and run through the perfect pot of tea in their little kitchenette, so he could greet them with a loaded tea-tray in the morning. When he was really little, he had to stand on a stool to get the milk from the fridge and shouldn't, technically, have been using the stove to heat water, but everyone knew perfect tea couldn't be made with water from an electric kettle, and toast had to be stuck on a poker in an open flame, not jammed in a toaster where it would blacken or stay raw bread. He would carry the breakfast tray to his parents' room, somehow shoulder open the door and wait for their sleepy approval – which never came. It was always too cold, too steeped, too weak, too milky, or one of the other million things that meant he had to try again tomorrow. When he hit fifteen he thought 'screw it, they can make their own goddamn tea', and cringed at the memory of every failed pot.

He taught himself not to care. What did any of that matter when there was flight to think about? He just sat on the seesaw and dreamed his impossible dreams – and how to someday make them possible.

* * *

><p>.<p> 


	4. Dala: Pretty Girl

.

* * *

><p><strong>3. Dala: Pretty Girl<strong>

* * *

><p>Dala listened to her father rant and calculated how long it would take him to realise she'd slipped out the back door. She could hear him from all the way down the street. Everybody could. She kept her head down and her eyes lowered so she couldn't see their nosy neighbours' knowing looks. It wasn't bad enough growing up in Nibelheim, a backwater where nothing ever happened; no, she had to live with a man with giant opinions and a volume to match.<p>

She had to admit she didn't like Shinra either, but unlike her father she didn't yell about it all the time. Nobody much liked the company. Shinra were regarded as money-grabbing industrialists who didn't care for local customs or traditions. Still, everyone had to admit the mako reactor had created some much-needed jobs. A lot of the real manly-men – men who chewed iron nails instead of tobacco and scratched themselves in public – thought working for Shinra was a cop-out from 'real work'. Those were the men whose families had used dragon hunts to provide for the town since the first settlers, and who saw no reason to change anything now. One dragon pelt could fetch enough Gil to fix the water tower, or repair the road out of town.

Dala's father had lost his leg to Crimson Dragon when she was just a little girl. She had been caring for him ever since. Eighteen years after gaining a daughter and losing a wife, his temper and personality had long-since moved past 'grating'. You would think she would be inured to it, and him, after all that time, but it didn't work that way. She wasn't allowed to be sulky as a teenager. Hiding in her room would have made him climb the stairs, and then she would have caught the back of his hand for making him climb them. Rebelliousness was squashed quickly and efficiently – or so he thought. Nowadays, Dala found herself leaving the house when he got too bad, in case she said something she'd regret. Against all expectations, she didn't hate her father. He was capable of a gruff kind of love and was protective of her in his own way. He just had the personality of a grizzly bear with a sore butt most of the time.

The main street was blocked. A transport was parked in the middle. Plumes of blue-grey smoke told Dala it hadn't meant to stop there. The Shinra logo on the side also told her it had probably been destined for the reactor. As she watched, two men pored over the problem while a third hung back. The talking two were tall and broad, built like concrete outhouses, which wasn't unusual in Nibelheim. The one hanging back caught her eye mainly because he was so different – short and lean, buried in a thick duffel coat with legs sticking out beneath like toothpicks. Tufts of blond hair stuck out from under his bobble hat.

_Outsider_, Dala thought dismissively. No Nibelheimer worth his salt would wear a bobble hat.

She was surprised when he looked up. She was even more surprised when he tromped over to her. She stared, taken aback. Shinra people avoided the townsfolk. It was like some unspoken rule: if you didn't work at the reactor, you were a nobody. As he got closer, she could see he wasn't very old. Or maybe he just had a baby face, shaved clean and scrubbed so he had no protection against the elements.

"What ho." He had a young voice as well. Too bad she had no idea what he'd just said. Had he just insulted her?

"Did you just call me something rude?"

"What? Oh, no! I didn't … I mean, uh, hello there." He went on apologetically, "Heartily sorry for blocking the street. Engine trouble. The driver assures me it shouldn't take long to fix, but he also said that when we were halfway up the mountain, and I was sitting in the cold for nearly three hours that time."

"Uh … it's fine," Dala replied, nonplussed. Did he think she was someone important? Why would he bother apologising to _her_ like this? "Really. Nobody's out at this time of day anyway. It's lunchtime."

As if on cue, a loud gurgle cut the air. The outsider's cheeks were already pink with cold, so Dala couldn't tell if he was embarrassed. He folded his arms across his stomach, as if to stifle another rumble. "Ah. I broke my watch, but did think it might be past midday. If you please, is there anywhere a hungry soul could get a bite to eat around here? A café or an eatery of some description? I'd be most grateful if you could point me in the right direction. We set out so early that I last ate before the sun came up. Now my stomach thinks my throat has been cut."

"There's nothing like that in Nibelheim. We're not exactly on a tourist route."

"Oh. Well. No, I suppose not." He looked around. "A quaint place, though. Very picturesque. I imagine life around here is rather peaceful."

"Where there aren't marauding dragons to worry about," Dala said tightly.

He turned big eyes on her. "Are dragons a real problem?" Alarm laced the question.

"Only if you get a male trying to extend its territory, or two males competing for the same territory. Mostly the bigger breeds keep the smaller ones in check. You only have to worry if you're caught in the open with no weapons, which is why only the best hunters go out after them."

"People actually go _hunting_ dragons in these parts?"

"Of course. It's how we made our living before the mako reactor." Her words tightened even further, like an elastic band wound around and around her voice.

"I'd heard mountain folk were tough but I never …" He trailed off, looking at the surrounding houses with new respect. "Goodness gracious. Are there … a lot of causalities?"

She sighed. Lowlanders. "Why are you so interested?"

He blinked at her. "I was just making conversation. If I'm to be staying in the area for the foreseeable future, it would seem to make sense that I understand local customs and suchlike. Wouldn't it?" he added at her expression.

Dala snorted. She tried to cover the noise with a hand over her nose. Her cheeks reddened. It was unladylike to snort. Plus, she was pretty sure snot had just fired out. That was mortifying, Shinra flunky or not. She cleared her throat and went on, a little primly, "Shinra employees don't usually bother with stuff like that. They just stay over at the reactor, or in the mansion. They don't like mixing with lowly townspeople."

"Why on earth not?"

She shrugged. "Backwater hicks and educated scientists don't share many topics of conversation."

"But we're talking, aren't we?"

Her cheeks grew even hotter. She wondered why. The stranger's bright blue eyes were like Sapphire Dragon scales, glinting in the sun. She felt uncomfortable, like something under a microscope. What must he think of her, with her mannish boots and cold-chapped skin? His accent was strange. She had never heard anything like it before. He probably came from the rich part of Midgar, or some other built up area where women were beautiful and knew about things like culture and fine food – or at least which end of a Bunsen burner was up.

He continued to stare at her expectantly.

Her toes squirmed in her boots. "You're just being polite."

"Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to a pretty girl." His smile was bright as his eyes. "Maybe it was fate my transport broke down here, just as you happened to be passing."

"I don't believe in fate."

"Call it good luck, then. You do believe in luck?" He sighed and pushed his hat off his forehead. It left a corrugated line, like a raised red barcode. It was endearing.

Dala retreated a step. Shinra lackeys weren't supposed to be boyishly endearing.

His expression grew rueful. "I'm not making much of a first impression, am I? Look, I was assigned to this post without knowing much about it. I'm just a junior researcher. I'm not even sure what I'm meant to be doing up here until I meet the professor in charge, and I'm told he won't be back until this evening. Until then, I'm at a loose end. I really would like to know more about Nibelheim. That is, if you'd consent to being my guide for a quick excursion about the municipality to introduce me to any vital particulars of which I should be aware."

No native Nibelheimer talked that way. They weren't quite at the grunts-in-place-of-words stage of evolution, but neither did they use five words when one would do. Dala found herself intrigued by this odd young man. He was unlike any Shinra employee she had met before. Not that she had met many, but she was sure he wasn't like them.

"Quick would be the word for it," she replied. She stuck out her hand, briefly wishing her fingerless gloves weren't so threadbare. She pushed the thought away. He was just a Shinra lackey. His opinion of her hands and clothes didn't matter. "My name's Dala Bergmädchen."

He shook her hand. If he thought her gloves were disgusting, he didn't show it. "Thoroughly pleased to meet you, Dala. I'm Skye Strife."

* * *

><p><strong>Side-flings, Homages and Downright Rip-offs<strong>

* * *

><p><em>"My name's Dala Bergmädchen."<em>

- 'Bergmädchen' roughly means 'mountain daughter' or 'daughter of the mountains' in German.


	5. Skye: Outsider

.

* * *

><p><strong>4. Skye: Outsider<strong>

* * *

><p>Skye looked at Dala. Dala looked at Skye. She had no idea what she looked like, but it had to be bad. He looked all blurry from the tears in her eyes. Her head thrummed with a silent prayer and her throat felt like she had swallowed wet cement.<p>

"I …" Skye started, but then stopped. "My tenure is … it's due up. I'm meant to be leaving …" His gaze went to the path back into town.

Usually he came to her. She rarely went to the mansion, where he stayed in dorms with all the other research assistants. She had before, but the catcalls were too much – especially when one guy got fresh with her. She ended up giving him a shiner after Skye came to save her and the guy bloodied his nose.

Her chin dropped onto her chest. Her worst fears were confirmed. She didn't know what she'd been expecting. He couldn't stay, after all. She wouldn't dream of asking. His career was in Midgar and she knew how much that meant to him. Skye had spent his whole life dreaming of science and how the world worked. He had lost sleep and friends studying to get this far. He had nearly given himself a nervous breakdown so he could graduate at the top of his class. If he asked for leave now he would never regain the ground he lost. In Shinra, research was a cutthroat business; there were always plenty of young men and women willing to be dogsbodies if it got their feet on the ladder.

"I understand," she said in an approximation of composure. She thought she pulled it off pretty well. "I just thought you'd like to know." She sucked in a breath, wondering how to say she wouldn't be getting rid of it without sounding like she was challenging him to fulfil a duty she was already making plans to fulfil alone. Her father wouldn't be any help, but there were rooms in town she could rent until she figured out what to do next. Even if it meant leaving Nibelheim … and her mother's grave … and her friends and relatives … _Oh hell, don't break down now. Wait until Skye can't see, at least._

Skye's touch was gentle as he took her hands. She realised she'd balled them into fists only when he unwound her fingers. "I don't have a ring."

"Wh-what?"

"That's customary in situations like this, isn't it? I can still go down on one knee if you like, but dash it all, the only thing I have that could pass as a ring is the pull off a can of soda, and that's hardly romantic, is it?" He always talked in questions. The whole world was a series of answers he wanted to find out.

Dala was aghast. "I'm not asking for a shotgun wedding!"

"Good, because that's not what I'm offering."

She stared at him. "But … b-but your job –"

"Bugger the job, eh? You're more important, aren't you? Of course you are."

"Don't say that just because I've forced your hand –"

"Why are you assuming I think this is bad? This is wonderful news! Stupendous! Spectacular! Marvellous, even!" His grin was as wide as a ravine. "Not only am I going to be a father, we get to stay together. Dala, don't you understand? I love you. The most generous Shinra research grant in the world can't compare to that." He let go and knelt in front of her. "Dala Bergmädchen, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

The town wouldn't accept him. They already thought badly of him for 'stringing her along'. He was just a Shinra lackey to them, even if his blond hair and pale skin said there was mountain-blood somewhere in his family tree. They hated his posh voice and educated ways. They hated the way he walked, the way he talked, his attempts to make them like him. They didn't know how deeply his relationship with their Dala had evolved, mostly in secret, over the past year. Now, on the cusp of his departure, they were about to find out – plus a whole lot more besides. Dala's heart trembled at the thought.

Skye grasped her shaking fingers in his and rose to wrap her in a hug. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"I can't leave my father. He's so sick since the pneumonia –"

"Then we'll jolly well live here, won't we? We can get a place not far from your father's."

"But –"

"Whatever problems there may be, my sweetheart, we'll deal with them when we come to them, eh? For now, let's just concentrate on the good stuff, all right?" He was smiling against the side of her neck. She could feel the curve of his mouth. It made her belly flutter and her heart soar. "I'm going to be a dad. And you're going to be a mum. How incredible is that?"

Dala sniffed. "Pretty damn incredible."

"Dala! Such language from a blushing bride-to-be."

"Oh shut up," she laughed, and kissed him.

* * *

><p>.<p> 


	6. Sephiroth: Prodigy

.

* * *

><p><strong>5. Sephiroth: Prodigy<strong>

* * *

><p>Sephiroth wasn't sure what to make of this place. The air was thinner than he was used to, but also cleaner. He wondered whether that was why his latest tests were being held here. His reflexes, durability and dexterity were constantly tested across all manner of terrains. This wasn't the first time he had been brought to a mountain range, or a snowy environment. His resilience to the cold was long-established, but the white-coats like to double, triple and quadruple check their results.<p>

This time that was fine with him. Opportunities to go outside without slashing things to bits came rarely. He relished the chance whenever he could. Nothing so pedestrian as someone leaving his door unlocked ever happened – except that this time it did.

Maybe it was fate. If he had known what fate was, he might have considered the possibility. As it was, he simply walked out and nobody stopped him, each thinking he was going somewhere he was meant to be.

He wasn't trying to run away. He tried that once or twice when he was much smaller. An orderly had taken an interest in him. He hadn't wanted to test or question or measure Shinra's child prodigy, which had confused Sephiroth until the man explained that he was just worried about him.

"A kid your age should be kept locked away. You barely have any social skills other than how to act around labs and training grounds."

"Is that unusual?"

The orderly had described a world beyond those places. He had told Sephiroth about something called 'schools' and other gatherings of young humans.

"They fight each other?"

"No, they just hang out together."

"Hang … out? Of what?"

"They're friends. They like spending time together, not doing much of anything."

"That sounds like a counterproductive use of their time."

"How old are you?"

"Six years and seventeen days old. Why?"

Sephiroth had listened to the stories of 'schools' with interest and decided he wanted to see those places. Of course, his request was denied, so he had tried to go without permission. The first time they wrote off his escape as a bad reaction to the latest batch of drugs. The second time they listened to what he was trying to do.

"I wish to see a school and 'hang out' with its inhabitants."

The orderly disappeared not long afterward. Sephiroth was allowed periods of time outside from then on, although only under strict supervision.

"May I see a school?" he asked Professor Hojo.

Hojo had shaken his head. "What would be the point? You're better than any dross those failing educational institutions churn out."

Despite the Professor's scorn, 'school' continued to fascinate Sephiroth. That type of non-combat, non-strategic training was so foreign. His 'peers' all went to the school-place even though it didn't teach them tracking, or swordplay, or anything remotely useful.

So when he heard the chime of a bell and saw crowds of youngsters in the little mountain town, he headed that way. He wanted to understand. Nobody in the labs ever told him the reason for anything, and never answered his questions, or if they did they answered in ways he found difficult to understand. Hojo was excellent at answering questions without actually answering them. That had bred a deep-seated desire in Sephiroth to _know_ things, which was rarely, if ever, satisfied.

Today turned out to be irregular at the school-place as well. He watched at a distance as all but one youngster filed into the blocky building. The one the adults kept back had an expression of alarm, which made Sephiroth uncomfortable for reasons he couldn't name. His exceptional hearing picked up the conversation between the two adults and one child as if they were standing next to him.

He knew what a blizzard was. The white-coats had made him run training exercises during one yesterday, when the rest of the town battened down their hatches to wait it out. He was fine, naturally, but according to this conversation that had not been the case everywhere.

"He was reckless," said the man, who identified himself as 'Principal Mazur'. "Nobody who grew up in Nibelheim would've taken that kind of risk, even for a bounty like that. Black Dragon pelts fetch a high price, but they're not worth wading into a snowstorm."

"Can't you show some compassion?" the woman demanded. Her cheeks were wet.

Sephiroth tried to remember the word for expelling water from eye-ducts. He didn't think he had ever done it himself unless in the middle of a desert during a sandstorm.

"Why don't you do something useful, instead of standing there, criticising my husband like you have any right to judge him. You know as well as I do that he only took such a stupid risk because he was finally allowed into a dragon-hunting party. He thought it meant people were finally accepting him. He thought … he thought he was finally becoming … one of us." Her upper lip curled. "Sorry, one of _you_. Because _I'm_ not a Nibelheimer anymore, right? Not since I married an outsider. Even though I've lived here all my life; even though I grew up in the same house I'm living in now; even though I went to school here – you were my principal, Mazur!After all these years, can you blame Skye for wanting to impress people so we could live in peace, instead of feeling like we don't belong? He just wanted to be acknowledged. H-He just … he wanted you people to think he was worth something. He wanted me to fit in. He blamed himself for me being unhappy. And n-now …"

"Mom?" said the child. "Mommy?"

The woman put a hand to her mouth. She stared at the listening child in horror. She knelt and put her arms around it in a non-confining hold. Sephiroth wondered what the point of the gesture was, since it was in no way strong enough to hold onto the child if it chose to break free.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she said at a volume obviously intended for only the child to hear. "It's okay. You ignore everything I just said. I'm talking rubbish."

"Isn't Daddy coming home today either?"

"… No, sweetie."

"But he already missed dinner last night!"

"I know."

"He'll be hungry if he misses dinner tonight as well. How about tomorrow? Will he be back tomorrow?"

"Daddy's … he's not coming home for a long time."

"Why not?"

"He ... can't."

"Did he go back to the city?"

"No."

"Then where is he? Is he hiding? Is that why you won't let me go to class? The teacher will yell if I miss too much. She already yells at me a whole bunch. I don't want to make her even madder."

The woman expelled more liquid from her eyes. She appeared to be having trouble breathing. Sephiroth watched as she led the confused child away.

He was rather confused himself, but he now understood that the pair were biologically related. The physical similarities were striking. That gave him pause for a very different reason.

He didn't have a biological mother. She had died so he could live. He had been told that for as long as he could remember. He wasn't given to what-ifs, but the one that did occasionally occur to him revolved around his unknown mother. Watching the woman and child walk away from the school, he wondered whether non-confining holds and ridiculous lies were part of the parent-child relationship. Things were definitely _not_ okay, yet the mother had told her son they were. If Sephiroth's own mother had survived, would she also have lied to him like that?

Nobody lied to him at the labs. They didn't tell him things, but omitting truths wasn't the same as changing them into lies. Sephiroth's life was a built upon a carefully stacked set of facts: he was the strongest, the fastest, the best. He was special. He was one of a kind. The white-coats knew what was best for him. Sometimes pain was necessary. He had to obey the rules. The word of Shinra was indisputable. These things were the structure of his existence. A mother was supposed to protect her offspring and do what was best for her progeny. How, then, could lies ever be a reasonable course of action? Did he truly want someone in his life if their presence would destabilise its structure that way?

He returned to the labs still mulling over this question. The place was in an uproar. He endured their reprimands without argument. The white-coats returned him to his quarters, where he rested, as was sensible. Nobody encircled him with a non-confining hold. Nobody expelled water from their eyes at his safe return. They were just glad Hojo didn't know his pet had been missing for an entire afternoon. He was reproached and he accepted it, not wishing for anything more.


	7. Scarlet: High Flier

.

* * *

><p><strong>6. Scarlet: High-Flier<strong>

* * *

><p>Scarlet raised her head slowly, in case bits fell off. That wasn't even hyperbole. She'd hit the wall pretty hard – enough to make a dent in the plaster. She could just see it from here, mottled red in the centre. Something wet oozed down her temple and into her eye. Oh well, if she was bleeding maybe he'd stop quicker. Quick gratification with a visual stimulus.<p>

Look at her, knowing all these big words. None of them ever meant anything when she got home at night. She was coming top of all her classes, but he didn't ever ask. She gave her report card directly to Mom. At least Mom cared. She'd almost cried when she saw all the As, and murmured about putting money aside for further education after she graduated high school. As if her father would ever shell out for university. As if Scarlet would ever go and leave her mother behind to take this kind of thing in her stead. Her mother had endured it while Scarlet was a baby, to keep her daughter safe. Now it was Scarlet's turn to repay that protection.

"… Stupid little ..." The bass rumble came from high above. The echo was probably more to do with the ringing in her head, though.

Her ears thumped and she could feel her pulse in her throat. It mercifully drowned out most of the tirade. She lay still, letting his anger burn itself out. It always did eventually. It was worse to fight back. That just prolonged his fury and gave him a moving target. He wasn't into beating dead horses. No fun there. She'd long ago learned that if she just kept her head down and took whatever he dished out he'd grow tired of her weakness and leave her alone, and while he was focussed on her, at least, he left Mom alone.

"… patronising … full of yourself … high and mighty … teach you a lesson … do it again and again until you learn …"

He was still going. The words were clipped and perfectly pronounced. It'd be better if he was drunk. Not that it would make the punches hurt any less, but at least she could blame the drink for putting into his mouth the evil things he said. Her father knew exactly what he was saying. He could think his way through a corkscrew without bending, and then stab you through the heart with it.

Scarlet was aware of him gripping her shoulder and pulling her up. This was new. Usually he just let her lay there when she fell down. Sometimes he kicked her side, but that was rare. She blinked into her father's reddened face and saw for the first time the crumpled paper in his fist.

Oh no.

"… thought you could keep this from me? Like I'd let any daughter of mine get ideas above herself at one of those snooty …"

The letter was from Midgar University about a scholarship programme her teacher had enquired about on her behalf. Thinking Scarlet would appreciate it, he'd put her name down and written a glowing reference. That and her grades had gotten the interest of the selection board. Scarlet had intercepted the letter when she found out and hidden it in her room where even her mother couldn't find it. No point in giving anyone false hope – or a reason to kick off.

She knew she should just get rid of it. Keeping it around was dangerous, but she couldn't bring herself to destroy it, even though there was no chance she'd ever take up the provisional place they'd offered. That letter was evidence she wasn't the stupid little nobody her father constantly told her she was. It was proof that if she wanted, she could be somebody, instead of just settling for a life as a wife and baby-maker of some boy who met his approval. She didn't have many keepsakes, since her father knew destroying them was an easy way of getting at her, but she valued that letter despite the danger if he ever found out about it. Nobody ever did anything in this house without her father's permission.

But he had found it. She should have guessed when he seized her before she'd even crossed the threshold. Usually he at least let her close the door and do something he didn't like before he started, so the neighbours couldn't see and he could justify 'disciplining' his family in his own mind.

"D-Daddy …" she managed to get out as he shook her. She never called him that anymore. It was a childish name, but maybe that would work in her favour. Maybe he'd be shocked into letting her go, like in those movies and TV shows about domestic abusers. "D-Daddy stop, p-please!"

"You were going to leave!" he thundered. "Even after I said no to university, you were going to defy me. You've been planning this all along, haven't you? _Haven't you_?"

"N-No, Daddy, you don't understand. My teacher –"

"That's why you've always been so snotty," her father continued like she hadn't spoken. "Little Miss Superior, looking down her nose at her dear old dad and the life he has to work so hard to maintain for her. Nothing has ever been good enough for you, has it? You think you're so much better than this life. Like _you _deserve more than the rest of us. You've always looked down on me, on my job at the power plant, on this house, on the food I work so goddamn hard to put on the table. You've never appreciated anything I've done for you! you were just waiting to get away, like _you _could ever make something of yourself!"

There was sudden pressure on her windpipe. Scarlet gasped. He was choking her! She struggled to breathe, scrabbling at the hands wrapped around her throat. This was a whole new level of anger. She'd never seen her father this mad before. Reason had gone out of the window, or he'd have foreseen the consequences of leaving marks where people could see. The pressure increased, and the thumping in her head grew louder.

_He's going to kill me_, she thought abruptly. _He's so mad, he's actually going to kill me._

Sparkles burst at the edges of her vision. Her movements grew sluggish. She couldn't breathe. The pressure inside her head was incredible. Everything started to go black.

And then the pressure vanished. Air rushed into her lungs. She sucked at it greedily. She flopped back onto the floor and just lay gasping for a minute, as the world spun around her and her eyeballs shrank to better fit their sockets. When she could think straight again she tried to scramble upright, to get away before her father could launch another attack.

Except that he wasn't going to. He never would again.

Her mother stood over them both, wild-eyed and panting. There was a red smear across the front of the demure, high-necked, long-skirted dress her husband always insisted she wore. Some of her million-and-one hairpins had come loose, probably as she rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the long carving knife off the counter, ran back into the hall and plunged it into his back.

Scarlet stared at the crumpled heap that moments earlier had been her father. Her mother had tolerated years of his cruelty, but today she'd finally snapped. Tendrils of blonde hair hung around her face, moving as she shook her head from side to side.

"What have I done?" she muttered brokenly. The look in her eyes was unfettered grief and … regret? Seriously? Even after everything, she was still apologetic? "What have I _done_?"

Scarlet coughed. Her throat felt raw. She tried to talk, but the words came out like the one time her father hit her in the face and she had to go to the dentist to get her chipped tooth fixed. The novocaine had number one half of her mouth so she drooled and couldn't talk properly, she sounded the same way now.

Her mother looked at her. Emotions flickered behind her blue eyes. Her mouth set into a grim line. "Scarlet," she said flatly. "This is it. This is where it all changed for you. It ends here. You have to make something of your life now. You have to be more than me. You can't end up like … this." She gestured at her neat-as-a-pin apartment, the high rise building they lived in with all the other power plant workers, her chintz furniture, her net curtains, and her dead husband. "You have to be stronger – stronger than me. I threw it all away because I was scared. Because I was weak. I let …" She broke off, centred herself, and carried on huskily, "You're worth more than this. No matter what he said, _you_ are better than this. You have the chance to be more now, sweetheart. Don't waste it." She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered, "I love you." Then she tore out of the hall, into the sitting room, and wrenched open the French windows onto the balcony.

Scarlet realised what she was about to do and screamed, but it was too late.

The police officers who came commented on how dispassionate the daughter of the murder-suicide couple had been. She spoke flatly when giving her statement, did everything the medics asked of her, and went quietly wherever she was told to go. It wasn't like she was shell-shocked, they said; more like she genuinely didn't care about what had happened. Although given the recognisable signs of abuse that emerged during the investigation, maybe that wasn't unexpected. The father was violent and the mother did nothing to help until the very end.

They didn't understand a damn thing. Nobody did. Scarlet never told anybody the truth, either. She'd grown used to being silent about her private life, and the habit continued as she finished high school and took up the scholarship that had both caused and solved all her problems. People whispered behind her back – of course they did. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in their ranks, and the gossipmongers were merciless. There was a stigma to her amongst the people who'd known her parents. Theirs was a community of closed doors and twitching curtains.

Scarlet was glad to get away from it. When she entered the world of Midgar University she immediately set to work becoming the strongest, the best, the most successful, leaving behind the whispers and gossip. Eventually new whispers took their place – stories of how ruthless she was, how committed to succeed, and how she didn't care who she trampled to get to the top. She worked harder, stayed later in the labs and library, streaked ahead of her classmates and left them choking in her dust. She didn't have to hide her talent from anyone anymore, and she revelled in that freedom, even as guilt bit into the back of her brain like a dog with lockjaw.

She made connections early. The professors loved her as much as they were intimidated by her. They'd never seen anyone so driven before, and appreciated the way she listened intently to everything they had to teach instead of dozing off in the back row like many students. It didn't hurt that she was a stone cold fox, even with her hair scraped into a functional ponytail and her curves masked in baggy, uninspiring clothes.

Scarlet was impressive to look at, though she'd never been allowed to flaunt her beauty while living under her father's thumb. Her wardrobe since early puberty had been limited to browns and greys, the baggier the better. Nothing had ever really been able to mask them, so she'd also worn heavy coats, even in summer, and sometimes been trapped in the bathroom so he could scrub her face to make sure she looked 'appropriate' by his standards.

But her father wasn't calling the shots anymore. She quickly realised that to be truly successful you had to make full use of _all_ weapons at your disposal, and when one lecturer made a pass at her she added her looks to her arsenal. She shed the modest clothes of her childhood and started wearing provocative outfits in a range of bright colours – red being her favourite. Red was the colour of danger, but it was also desire, and men seemed to react best to the hidden message in her colour coding. She made her legs look longer and sexier in heels, even for morning lectures. She bought magazines and styled her hair like the models. She got a job at a beauty parlour to pay the bills and also to pick up tips so she didn't look like some stupid little girl playing dress-up when she tried out make-up.

She didn't look like a swot anymore. When people underestimated her she played on it, then blindsided them with her intelligence. It was a winning scheme, and one that put her ahead of her competition when it came to courting jobs later on. Scarlet had it all – looks and brains, plus enough determination and willpower to sink a barge. She got herself invited to parties for alumni and governors, schmoozing as relentlessly as she studied. She made sure she was noticed, and when she came to the end of her time at university she was perfectly placed to get and go where she wanted, all the while laughing at her peers and their last-minute cramming for jobs she'd already requisitioned.

"Bitch," most muttered.

"And proud of it," she replied airily. She knew where she was headed.

Nobody would ever tell Scarlet how to live her life again. She would be top of the heap, no matter what. She would grab power, make tough decisions, and sacrifice anything and anyone to be top dog. The corporate ladder was more a moving staircase, and to be top of the top, by whatever means necessary, she knew where she had to go.

The day she stared at the nameplate on her door, with the little Shinra logo embossed in the corner, was one of supreme satisfaction. Shinra was top dog of the corporate world. Everything came back to Shinra in the end. As an executive, she now wielded the kind of power her father, domineering over his mini kingdom and two frightened subjects, had only ever dreamed of.

"I did it, Mom," she murmured behind the privacy of her locked office door. "I made something of myself." She took out the list of executives from the Shinra PR brochure and went immediately to the top. "And I won't stop until I really am top of the heap."

The edge of the paper crumpled a little under her fingers. President Shinra was a corpulent, grotesque blob of a man, but that was where the power lay, so that was where Scarlet needed to aim for. She would secure her place at the top, by whatever means necessary.

"That Scarlet," people muttered when they thought she couldn't hear. "What a bitch."

None of them ever noticed her keening, ear-splitting laughter had an edge that sounded a lot like a child crying for its mother.


	8. Felicia: Daddy's Girl

.

* * *

><p><strong>7. Felicia: Daddy's Girl<strong>

* * *

><p>Felicia wished her father told stories the way other kids' fathers did. He was pretty good at it. She had a few half-lidded memories of him doing it. He was a surprisingly good storyteller, but nowadays he never had the time or the interest. Sometimes she wondered whether that man in her memories was someone she'd made up or dreamed.<p>

Her mother tried, but she couldn't tell a story worth toffee. She knew fairytales and a few folktales, but Felicia could tell those herself, and better. Mostly her mother trailed off and looked embarrassed that she couldn't even entertain a child who _wanted_ to listen. She wasn't a bad mother or anything – they were poor, but Felicia never went hungry, or felt self-conscious about the invisible repairs in her threadbare clothes. Still, her mother was no storyteller, and as her father became more and more entrenched in his new job, the words he used to spend freely became clipped and rationed, like he was always afraid of saying more than he should.

Once when she was seven, when everyone thought she was in bed asleep, Felicia cowered at the foot of the stairs and listened to her parents fight.

"But why Midgar, of all places?" her mother demanded, voice thick like she was close to either crying or screaming.

"Because that's where the work is."

"I'm not taking Felicia to that fleapit."

"Fine."

"That's it? That's all you've got to say?"

"What do you want me to say?" Felicia hated the way her father's voice had become so tight, like he had a knot in his windpipe and all the things he was supposed to say at that moment were stuck behind it.

"I don't know!" her mother whisper-yelled. Even in the heat of the moment she hadn't forgotten the little girl she thought was upstairs.

"Then I have no answer I haven't already given," her father said at normal volume. "I took the job because we were a hairsbreadth from insolvency. You encouraged me to go where the work was. I helped start that department. They need me."

"But _permanently_ living in Midgar …" her mother trailed off. "That place is bad news. And you're working for the biggest bad news of them all. You can't expect to uproot us just so we can go live with all the other Shinra wives and children on some … some grubby estate! I've lived my whole life in Kalm. Everything I know and love is here. All my friends and family –"

"And a big help they were when we needed them. My wages from Shinra have kept us off the streets, Emily. Now they're offering me a promotion I can't afford to turn down."

"Even if it means living there without us?"

He didn't even hesitate. "Even then."

Her mother's voice lost all confrontation. From the squeak, Felicia could imagine her slumping into a chair and staring up at the man she'd married; the man she'd promised never to part from until one of them died. There was such _defeat _in her tone. Even though the hallway wasn't cold, Felicia shivered and hugged her knees close.

"You've changed, Veld. You used to hate Shinra. What happened to your big ideas about how they can't be trusted?"

"Times change. People too."

"I suppose they do," her mother said softly.

Felicia crept back to her room and buried herself under the bedclothes. She waited for her father to say goodbye, or even hello. He'd come home from Midgar that morning with barely a word to anyone, and the sense that coming home at all with some giant inconvenience. Whatever her father did, he did wholeheartedly. It used to be he lived for his wife and daughter. Now that dependability was Shinra's, to call on whenever they wished – like at three o' clock in the morning, so when she went down for breakfast the next day he was already gone.

She cried herself to sleep for three nights straight. She tried to convince herself he'd just forgotten, and would apologise when he came back again. She took to sitting on the porch, waiting eagerly for his arrival. She constructed little scenarios in her head – her father sweeping her into his arms, laughing, not minding when she nuzzled her sticky face against the shoulder of his suit. Her mother's scepticism was a hurdle to be overcome, which Felicia did by a combination of ignoring the signs and flat-out denial. Her father would come back, and everything would fix itself. All she had to do was keep believing and it'd all turn out right. You'll see.

So she was in the perfect spot to see the woman when she came stumbling along the road in her torn cloak. Her skirt was brown with old dry mud; the kind you couldn't find around Kalm. The woman was exhausted, her face pinched with hunger and the beginning of dehydration. There was also a splint around her leg, tied with a bloodied bandage. Their house was right at the edge of the town, the first one you saw when you came down the main thoroughfare. The woman stood right in the middle of the road, blinking faster than a hummingbird could beat its wings. Then she fell over and didn't get up again.

Felicia yelled for her mother, who came running with a gasp.

"What on –"

"Is she alive? Mummy, is she still alive?"

"She's breathing. Hurry, Felicia. Get the blanket off the porch swing and bring it here."

Together they dragged the stranger inside where it was cooler.

"Who is she?" Felicia asked.

"I have no idea, honey, but she's in a bad way. Hurry and fetch the big pitcher from the kitchen. Fill it with water and bring it here. Careful you don't drop it."

"Like I did the other one," Felicia blushed, remembering the wedding gift and how her mother had cried when it accidentally broke.

Now, however, she just looked a little sad at the memory. "Actually, I just meant it would make a mess we don't have time to clean up."

"Oh."

If Felicia's mother hadn't been a nurse before Shinra budget cuts closed Kalm Hospital, the woman may have died, or at least suffered organ damage. As it was, she took up the bed in Felicia's room and lay there, inert, as her body knitted itself back together. It was like something out of a story. In real life people rarely took strangers into their home and cared for them, no matter how hurt they were. It just wasn't the done thing. Anything could happen – you could be murdered in your bed, or robbed blind, or have your children stolen if you opened your home willy-nilly to every waif or stray.

The neighbours talked. Of course they did. They'd talked about Felicia's father, his work for Shinra, the odd hours he kept and that time he arrived home and left a bloody footprint on the front porch. If something so small could be a hot topic, then taking in an outsider must have filled afternoon tea conversations up and down the town.

"I don't know why I trust her," Felicia's mother admitted when one person asked why she'd let someone she knew nothing about into the house – especially with a small child around. "I just … do. She's very trustworthy."

"You have no idea who she is, Emily. For all you know, she's some escaped criminal on the run from the law, or a mass-murderer hiding from the families of her victims, or a swindler lying low to wait out the aftermath of her latest scam. You could be sheltering a felon!"

Since that neighbour was known for his overactive imagination, nobody gave his theories much credit. Nonetheless, the truth remained that the stranger was … well, _strange_. It wasn't normal to be travelling alone on foot in these parts, and definitely not in the state she'd been in. Not if you had nothing to hide.

"She's trustworthy," Felicia's mother maintained.

"How can you possibly know that?"

"How can't you?"

The neighbours remained unconvinced, but Felicia knew what her mother meant. There was something special about the woman; a sense that even though you'd never met her before, she knew you and you knew her, and that was exactly as it should be. When she smiled you automatically smiled back, even when you wanted to be suspicious of her sitting up in _your_ bed, eating _your_ food, staring around at _your_ things and commenting on how nice you kept _your_ house.

"This is very generous of you," she said over a plate of stew seasoned with lots of herbs and spices even though they didn't have to disguise the taste of bad meat anymore. "But I know I've outstayed my welcome."

"Nonsense," said Felicia's mother. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need to."

"But I –"

"You can't go back on the road until you're back to full health, and _I'll_ decide when that is. And I could always use a babysitter who knows how to tell stories properly."

The woman stared at her, and then nodded, happiness catching in her throat.

She didn't volunteer any personal information, but somehow it didn't seem to matter. She was good company, kind and helpful when she was finally able to get up, and did what not many adults allowed themselves to do – she loved to play.

Proper playing, too. The kind where you just let yourself go and became a little kid again. The kind of whooping, screeching, reckless playfulness most people outgrew in puberty. Felicia knew she was missing something, but not what until the first time they both collapsed, breathless and laughing, and she realised what she'd been missing was a friend. No parents let their kids play at her house since her father started working for Shinra.

"Do you … do you mind playing with me?" Felicia asked that first time, hesitant. "I mean, you prolly have all sorts of things you should be doing instead, an' all –"

"Felicia, there's nothing I'd rather do more than this."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"You're not just saying that?"

"I never 'just say' anything."

"I guess. Hey, will you answer a question for me?"

"If I answer that'd make it two questions."

"Why did you come to Kalm?"

The woman went quiet for a long time before answering. "It was where I was meant to be."

"Huh?"

"I just picked a direction and kept on walking. Kalm was between me and the horizon. Then you and your mom took me in, which is as good an indication as any that I'm meant to stay here a while."

A while? Felicia frowned. Her birthday candles wouldn't hit double figures for a few years yet, but she knew an omen when she heard it. "How long is a while?"

"As long as a piece of string."

"That's not a real answer!"

"I'll stay in Kalm as long as is necessary." The hesitation was loaded with meaning, none of which Felicia could understand. "And safe."

Felicia wasn't stupid. She knew that the most obvious reason for a lone woman to be out on the road, unsupplied, injured and without destination was if she was running way from something – or someone. And you didn't run away from good stuff.

"Kalm is safe. Nobody bad can get you in Kalm. My dad protects the town."

"Does he now?"

"Uh-huh. Even though he's not around a lot anymore. He still looks out for us where he is. He's still working real hard! He just can't home so much, and he's kind of crabby when he is here, but I'm sure that's just stress and thanks-for-eye-and-teeth."

"And _what_?"

Felicia sounded out the word she'd heard her mother use to a nosy neighbour.

"Do you mean _anxiety_?"

"Yeah, that's it. Anyhow, that's why my dad isn't here right now. I was all sad about it, but then you came, and it's really hard to be sad around you. You're, like, the least saddest person in the world, so I don't feel awful and all missing-my-dad when you're around."

"That's … really very sweet of you, Felicia."

Felicia clicked the heels of her shoes together and studied the scuffed toes. "I wish you could stay here an' be my friend forever and ever."

"Felicia …"

"And I hope whatever nasty people chased you before, and made you fall down the cliff outside town and hurt your leg, never ever finds you again. But if they do, I'll beat them up for you."

"Oh, sweetheart."

"My daddy says sometimes force is inev-… inevee… necessary. You can't help it. So you just have to go with it. That's what he says." At last Felicia looked at her unlikely friend – way past being a teenager, but not nearly as old as her mom. An adult in everything except the mischievous sparkle in her green eyes, which at that moment had faded at that moment into something unhappy and horrible. "Ifalna?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you like it here?"

"I love it. This is the first time I've felt like I belonged in a long time."

"Good. That means you won't leave anytime soon, right?"

"If there's one lesson I have to teach you, sweetheart, it's this: never make promises you're not certain you can keep."

"Don't you like playing with me?"

"Put it this way; if I ever had a daughter, I'd want her to be just like you."

That made Felicia feel all squiggly inside. She blushed and waggled her toes inside her shoes. "I want to be just like the heroine in your stories. The ones about the Great Cat-Bag-and-Tea."

"Great Calamity."

"Yeah, that. I like those stories about that lady who fought the monster from the crater and helped seal it away, and then led her people to the safe place where nobody could get them, and they all lived happily ever after, and she was all strong and cool and could use magic and stuff."

"Elfé," Ifalna said softly. "You mean the stories about Elfé."

"Yeah, her. She was cool."

"She was a real person."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. A long time ago, though."

"Well, yeah. 'Cause nobody could do even half of what she did anymore."

"Right," Ifalna said, even softer. "There's nobody like her left in the world."

Felicia gave her a sidelong glance. "Do you reckon someday you'll tell me the real reason you came here?"

"Maybe. When you're older."

She liked that answer. It suggested that the time before them stretched longer than a midday shadow. When you'd lived your childhood alone and unpopular, you valued whatever friendship fate supplied, even if it came from mysterious women with shady pasts, who could earn trust instantly, repel any attempts to pry into her life before Kalm, and made the sickly vegetables in the garden grow big and fat just by _talking_ to them. Felicia could overlook a lot of weirdness if it meant finally having a friend.

Which was why it hurt all the more when Ifalna left without warning. She just vanished one night, the note on her pillow full of apologies and thanks for all their kindness. She wrote that she'd had a dream warning her it was finally time to leave, and that she hoped they understood. She'd gone because she didn't want them to get into trouble for sheltering her. Some people wanted to talk to her, and she really didn't want to talk to them, but they wouldn't take no for an answer. She didn't want either Felicia or her mother to be caught up in the whole messy business.

_I'm sorry. Please understand. Love, Ifalna._

"What a strange woman," Felicia's mother said after reading the note aloud. "I'll miss her, though," she added after a moment. "Strange but nice."

Felicia said nothing, but privately bet she'd miss her more. She sat on the porch for weeks, but neither Ifalna nor her father ever reappeared.


	9. Ifalna: Widow

.

* * *

><p><strong>8. Ifalna: Widow<strong>

* * *

><p>You could almost hear the scritch-scratching as Ifalna clawed her self-control back from the edge. She took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The smell of blood was heavy enough to taste. Knowing it was Gast's only made the nausea worse.<p>

She stared straight ahead, at the opposite wall, not daring to look at the body. His body. No, _the _body. That wasn't Gast. Not anymore. The spray against her cheek was still sticky, but she couldn't bring herself to wipe it off. Likewise the red spatter on the maternity blanket, stained by the blowback of the first bullet.

A low grizzling made her look down, smoothing aside a soft pastel corner. No blood had got on the baby, at least. Ifalna shushed as a distraction from what was going on. If she pretended Gast wasn't dead on the floor, Shinra employees weren't ringing her with weapons drawn, and Professor Hojo wasn't just outside the door, then perhaps none of it would be true. She'd still be Ifalna Faramis, wife, not Ifalna Faramis, widow and abductee.

She'd been running from this fate for years. She could recall in perfect detail each dream that had promised dark things for her at Shinra's hands. She'd left so many sanctuaries when her Cetra blood flared and a fresh warning came. Sometimes she's regretted leaving places so much she'd almost ignored the messages and stayed anyhow. Now she knew what might have happened if she had, and she was glad she'd never given in to her own selfishness.

Not until she met a jaded scientist who'd made the unprecedented move of leaving Shinra of his own free will, that is. Ifalna had been so impressed with that courage, and so lonely after leaving a particularly nice place called Kalm, that she'd let her guard down. She'd been foolish. And, foolishly, she'd fallen in love. It was the best and worst thing she'd ever done, and now it was over.

_Oh, Gast …_

The baby mewled.

"Hush, little one," she murmured. Every day she was still exhausted from the traumatic pregnancy and difficult birth. Months of being on the run, living hand to mouth to keep Shinra from finding them, had ultimately been a failure. Her tiredness was now just an insult to add to injury.

Her fingers flexed on the edge of the blanket. She brought the baby to her face to hide the tears she could no longer hold back.

The door opened. "Transportation will arrive shortly," said a nasal voice.

Ifalna refused to look up, but her grip on her daughter tightened. Hojo's shadow fell across them.

"I look forward to all the time we shall be spending together," he said. He sounded like he was almost laughing. The false politeness made Ifalna want to ignore the pacifism of the Ancients and pop him in the nose. Hojo had killed her husband. Even if he hadn't pulled the trigger himself, Gast was dead because of him. Aerith would never know her father because of him. "You really are the most exasperating woman to track down. Do you realise how long I've been waiting to meet you?"

"Leave us alone," she whispered hotly.

"It speaks at last." Now Hojo sounded delighted. Ifalna's impulse change from punching to strangulation. "You and that fool colleague of mine have set back our research by months. We have a lot of ground to cover if we're to catch up before Yule – next year!"

"Leave us _alone_. Haven't you done enough already?"

"Enough? After all these years of searching for a genuine Ancient? Oh no, my dear. Not even close."

Ifalna finally raised her gaze. Contrary to his tone, behind his glasses Hojo's eyes were flat and hard, like a slab of marble: covered in interesting patterns that hinted at something underneath, but cold and immoveable all the way through. Snake-eyes, her own mother would have called them. There was certainly something reptilian about the way he stared at her, and the way his gaze came to rest on the bundle in her arms.

It was then that she knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that she couldn't let this man have her daughter. A mother's duty was to guard her child, even if circumstances worked against her. That basic responsibility was the same all over the world, no matter the era, location or even species. Ifalna was the last full-blooded Cetra, but she had the same maternal instincts as any lioness, dragon mare or she-wolf. All three of those would fight to the death to protect their babies. She was no different, even if she had no claws or fangs to fight with. She had Ancient patience.

And so, when she finally did get the opportunity to save her daughter's life, Ifalna took her chance even though it was risky to the point of stupidity. She had to count on the fact that Shinra had invested countless funds and seven years of research, and that this had made them too valuable to shoot at.

She was wrong. She _should_ have counted on Hojo's mercilessness. If the secrets of the Ancients weren't to be his, he'd make damn sure they weren't anybody's.

Ifalna sat quietly in her seat on the train, Aerith bopping with excitement beside her. Of course, Aerith didn't fully understand what was going on. To her, this escape was full of wonder and excitement at finally getting out of the labs. Even slum air tasted fresh when you'd been a prisoner all your life.

Ifalna had healed her of the tranquiliser overdose dispensed by the first round of darts as they escaped – the one that came just before the guards switched to regular bullets. Slowly bleeding out from a stomach wound she was too weak to deal with after healing Aerith, Ifalna's protectiveness carried her as far as the next station, and allowed her to find someone whose spirit echoed the feeling. She had no fangs or claws, but she did have the Cetra ability to sense goodness in people she'd only just met.

"Please," she murmured, swallowing blood and no longer able to feel her midriff. "Look after her."

"I … I …" stuttered the stranger. She had kind eyes. They'd filled with a kind of horror as she realised what was happening to Ifalna.

"Please. Please don't let Shinra take her back. I only just got her out. She deserves her freedom. Please, she's … she's all I have …"

The woman swallowed, but finally nodded.

Ifalna's last sight was of Aerith's hand held tight in the stranger's, and she knew her daughter would be all right now. "Thank y-" she wheezed, but got no further before her poor abused body finally gave up and she died a true Midgar death: in public, ignored by most passers-by, and without any dignity at all.


	10. Cissnei: Foundling

.

* * *

><p><strong>9. Cissnei: Foundling<strong>

* * *

><p>Perhaps it would've been easier if she'd beaten him at chess or something. A lot of child prodigy stories had chess matches where the child beat an apparently unbeatable adult, gaining their respect and marking themselves out for greatness. Chess was a game of strategy and intelligence. If you beat people at chess you were not only showing how smart you were, but also how intense.<p>

She didn't play chess. She hated sitting still. She wasn't especially great at her schoolwork and rarely scowled at people enough for 'intense' to stick as a good adjective when describing her. Instead, she got herself noticed by throwing a bully into a tree hard enough to knock him out. While other little girls were rooting through the bin of slightly used toys, finding dolls whose hair they could brush without it coming away in their hands, she was beating up boys more than twice her size. As far as ways of getting noticed went, that was certainly a doozy.

She expected a telling off when Matron summoned her, and dragged her heels along the corridor to the office door. She wasn't a bad kid. Not a goody two shoes, but not bad either. Still, nobody liked being told off.

Matron's office reeked of pine from the air freshener she used to cover the smell of damp. The entire orphanage was in disrepair, and you had to watch your step as you filed along the corridors in case you tripped over a warped floorboard. Nurse took care of any injuries, but she'd grown up in a tiny village with no proper hospital. There you did the best with what you could until civilisation was reachable again after the thaw. As a result Nurse was too fond of iodine and a wire brush. It was easier to just take extra care so you never ended up in the sickbay. Even Matron avoided visiting Nurse if she could. The bully whose arm had been shattered was stuck there while Nurse watched for concussion, and forced to drink cod liver oil off a spoon. How that was supposed to help was anyone's guess, but it was a pretty good punishment on top of his cast.

She sat in the chair in front of Matron's desk, kicking her heels and waiting for the knife to fall. But it didn't fall. Instead, she was introduced to a man in a dark suit who sat in a chair in front of Matron's desk. He had a scar on his face and an unfathomable expression that didn't change when he looked from Matron to her. His eyes were darker than any she'd ever seen before. She could see herself reflected in them, all curved over like when she looked into spoons during washing-up duty.

"I'm not in trouble?" she asked after a while. "For what happened with Justice?"

Matron pursed her lips. She gave names to all orphans who came to her without any, and she was fond of virtues and qualities. Amongst the girls 'Patience' 'Glory' and 'Charity' were in constant rotation, while there had been more than one boy called 'Deference' during her tenure. It was a ploy to inspire and make them feel better about themselves and the fact nobody wanted them. They were society's castoffs and they knew it. Adoptions weren't common in the slums, where birth-rates were already too high and gangs grabbed kids who ran away from institutions. Still, the woman tried her best to improve her charges' lives in whatever small ways she could – however naïve or misguided.

"He was picking on Kindness again," she insisted at Matron's disapproving look. The words came out garbled in her effort to get her side of the story out as fast as she could. "He was pulling on her braids, so I grabbed his arm, and he called me a really bad name and tried to punch me, but I saw couple of those weird gang boys with the face-tattoos through the gates yesterday, and I'm sorry because I know I'm supposed to come inside when they're around, but it was a good thing I _did _watch them because Justice grabbed me _really hard_, and I kind of, um, copied what those boys did with how they used their arms and where they put their legs, but I didn't realise it would, like, fling him into the tree the way it did –"

"You performed that move after only seeing it once?" The man in the suit spoke for the first time. He had a deep voice, stern and not kind, but not horrible either. His dark eyes stared at her so intently she squirmed in the hard plastic chair.

"Um … yes?" She looked to Matron for an explanation.

"We'll discuss Justice later. For now, Mr. … Veld was it?"

He didn't confirm it. He didn't even look up at Matron.

"He'd like a word with you. He was visiting us about an employment opportunity for one of the older boys, but it appears you … caught his eye." The way Matron said this announced how this wasn't a good thing in her book.

She wondered why Matron had let the man in if she didn't like him. He looked very formal. Maybe he was more important than her. Maybe he was one of the Directors or something. Matron and Nurse were always talking about the Board of Directors, and they always used hushed voices, as if just saying the name was enough to make them magically appear and put terrible curses on everyone. The Directors were the bogeymen of the orphanage. If they said so, everyone could be tossed onto the street.

Mr. Veld was still staring at her. "How old are you?"

"Go on," said Matron when she didn't answer right away.

"I'm seven."

He didn't coo or tell her what a big girl she was, like a lot of adults when they realised she was younger than they'd thought. He nodded thoughtfully and stared some more. It made her uncomfortable.

"Are you a pervert?" she asked.

Matron gasped.

"Only, Constance said grown men who like to look at little kids too much are perverts, and you've been staring at me an awful long time."

Matron hissed at her not to be so rude, but Mr. Veld raised his hand for silence.

"I'm not a pervert," he said calmly, as if it didn't bother him at all to be accused of it. "I was merely impressed by how you acquitted yourself against that boy, and continue to be so now I can add your age to your dimensions and relative upper body strength."

"Huh?" She didn't know what 'acquitted' or 'dimensions' meant, but neither sounded good. Maybe she was in trouble after all.

"You have raw talent. My discussion with your Matron has also informed me that you also have several mental markers that could work to your advantage in the field. With the right training to shape your talent into practical sills, you could be a valuable commodity and an asset worth investing in, despite your age."

"You sound like a pervert."

Matron gasped again, sucking air between her dentures.

Mr. Veld didn't flinch. "My superiors may not agree, but as a long-term investment, I believe you may be worth the risk. Your age might be an issue, but you can overcome that with the proper guidance." He talked about her being just a kid like it was a handicap, to be coped with the way Grace used crutches to get around despite her bad leg, and Humility had to have dialysis before they couldn't pay for it anymore and he disappeared.

She squinted at him. "Who _are_ you?"

"My name is Veld. I am Head of Administrative Research at the Shinra Electric Power Company."

"Are you going to adopt me or something?"

He didn't smile. He didn't even blink. "Or something."

He asked her name only afterwards. She'd assumed Matron had already told him, but answered anyway. It was difficult to tell what Veld knew and what he didn't. As the years went by she'd realised just how true this was.

She'd also realise the stupidity of her name in the life he'd chosen her for. Just as he'd spotted and plucked her from the orphanage playground, she plucked out a new name for herself and tucked the old one away in a box, along with her naïveté and what was left of her childhood. You grew up fast as a Turk. By the time her eighth birthday rolled around she was already mentally referring to herself by her new name. When, over a decade later, she introduced herself to an overly keen SOLDIER who didn't realise she'd stopped being a damsel in distress when she was seven, the words tripped off her tongue like there had never been any others.

"I'm Cissnei."


	11. Legend: Big Brother

.

* * *

><p><strong>10. Legend: Big Brother<strong>

* * *

><p>He never figured himself big brother material. He barely remembered his parents and knew he had no siblings, so when the kid used the name, all huge eyes and innocent smile, it threw him for a loop. People didn't call him cutesy names. Generally they screamed or ran away. Sometimes they did both. Sometimes they didn't get the chance. The really stupid ones ran in the wrong direction and he had to watch their faces as they blew up.<p>

He stopped what he was doing and looked at the kid. "What'd you just say?"

Her smile wavered. "You don't like it?" Her feet backed away a step. "Did I offend you?" She sounded scared. Shit, she had a right. He could be one terrifying asshole. Not that his enemies ever got close enough to see his best hairy eyeball.

He had been called worse. Not many people knew his real name. Actually, most people didn't. He had elected a long time ago to keep it that way. He didn't have family to protect – no Super Sekrit Identity for him – so who cared what he chose to call himself? He could go around demanding everyone refer to him as Senor Bubbles McFuddy-Duddy Chuckle-Pants, and he would get a lot of weird looks, but nobody would actually _care_, just so long as he got his job done. In point of fact, he found it funnier to leave out his name when introducing himself. It was entertaining to see what people came up with when they didn't know what to call him.

During the war had been the worst – or was that best? – time for inventive, ego-boosting nicknames. His favourite was 'Death God of the Battlefield', although 'Legend of Bloody Death and Fiery Glory From Above' was glorifying if you didn't mind sticking around to finish saying it before the detonator went. He had liked 'Emperor of Fire' until he realised the Wutaians who called him that had actually named him after some old dragon from their mythology. Those names gave him the kind of gravitas most guys could only dream about. They made sure people were afraid before they even met him, even when they knew nothing else about him. You couldn't buy that kind of celebrity. Those who knew him as a ruthless sure-shot explosives expert had a reason to fear him, but he liked the boogieman effect too. Not a lot of people could say the mere mention of their nickname reduced grown men to jelly.

'Big Brother' was a let-down in comparison. He looked at the kid and realised it wasn't the only thing that had faded like hot tongs in water after his stint in Wutai. He had come down in the world, too. Nowadays he felt like some stupid errand boy. While part of him was glad to be out of that stinking jungle, and a tinier part was actually tiring of bloodshed, the rest chafed against the limitations peace-time placed on him. It had been a while since he got any real excitement. Being a Turk was cool, and Midgar had its own kind of stimulation, but it just wasn't the same.

The kid was still looking at him. Damn it; she expected an answer. What had she said? He wracked his brains like a broken fruit machine. A few memories jingled out. He shrugged. "Whatever. Call me Shirley, if you like."

She giggled. He softened, even as the back of his brain protested any kind of softness. Softness got you killed. Death Gods, Fiery Dragons and Legends of the Battlefield weren't soft.

This one was a good kid. You didn't find many of those in this city. A street brat – Midgar specialised in those – who hadn't turned bitter or mean yet. That made her unusual all by itself. He pegged her about eleven or twelve, small for her age and not long in this kind of life. She hadn't been born a street brat. She was still drawn to people like a moth to a flame. Established street-kids learned a long time ago that the kind of people they met were only out for what they could get. If you trusted too easily, you got taken advantage of, which meant hooking, drugs, both, or worse.

Ifrit's balls, sometimes he hated Midgar.

The kid's fine-boned face was extra angular from malnutrition. Her cupid's-bow mouth looked even bigger set against her hollow cheeks. She was all set to be a looker when her hormones really kicked in, which would have been great if she had a home and three square meals a day, but being attractive was dangerous on the streets. It wasn't safe to stand out.

Maybe that was why he hadn't shooed her away in the beginning. He had seen orphans in Wutai, orphans in Midgar and orphans in all the places he had visited in between. He was sick of seeing desperate old eyes in young faces. She wasn't quite there yet, so he had let her stick around while he and his team camped out here, and found satisfaction as the desperation leeched from her eyes with each passing day.

As far as he could tell, she didn't run with any local gang. He reckoned that was good. The gangs were bad news. A kid like her would get chewed into mince in five seconds. Poor diet and hard living had slowed her development, but puberty wasn't far off, and puberty on the streets brought all sorts of unwelcome attention whether you were a looker or not. He thought she had started hanging around while his guys staked out the reactor because Turk suits kept undesirables away. That was fine by him. They were waiting for the crooked arms dealer selling weapons to the anti-Shinra organisation holed up inside – a bunch of idiots who actually thought their HQ was secret. He had nothing better to do while he waited, and the kid played a mean game of cards for someone with such an innocent smile.

It was the shoes that told him he was really going soft. He should have told her to get lost long before, but _especially _after the shoes.

He didn't even know why he bought them. He just saw them in the window of a store, walked inside, paid and left again, like he did it all the time. He didn't even know if they'd fit; let alone why he bought them. When he saw them on the display stand, he just had a blinding flash of her toes crushed into those ratty sneakers. She had looped elastic bands around the ends to keep the soles on. The previous night one had snapped and pinged off, striking the back of his hand. He had joked she was trying to make him show his cards. She had just blushed and looked embarrassed.

He didn't make a big deal out of the gift. When she arrived, faux-casually emerging from behind the line of garbage cans, he tossed the box at her and lit up one of his trademark cigars, like he had picked it up at a thrift store and it meant nothing to him. They were hand-stitched, one-of-a-kind exclusives, according to the tag. Like he knew enough about footwear to care?

"You'd make a good big brother," she said now. "I never had any brothers or sisters, just my Poppy. He's … gone now. My mom died a long time ago. I never knew her. It was just me and Poppy until a few months ago." She paused. "Now it's just me." Her smile turned sad and wistful.

What the hell? '_Wistful'_? There was a time he wouldn't have known the meaning of the word. Now he was seeing it in some scrappy kid's eyes, like some sentimental romantic novelist? He was supposed to be a professional spy, intelligence gatherer, explosives expert, trained killer – the works. All that bad shit was _his_ bad shit. She should call him 'Bad Shit', not 'Big Brother'.

Why hadn't he driven her off the first day he caught her watching them? She had crouched like the garbage cans were a good shield, and kept glancing over her shoulder like she was waiting for someone to jump out and try to bash her head in.

_Fuuuuck. I do not need this. When did I become a damn humanitarian? _ He resisted the urge to throw up his hands and announce she was no longer his problem. Damn, he was in deep. He pushed the unwelcome feelings aside and shoved them down deep. He didn't have time for this now. _I got a mission. Mission first, then mental breakdown and identity crisis when I got time. Yup. Good plan._

He never asked her name. Maybe he thought that would be a step too far – as if buying her pretty footwear wasn't already verging on pervert territory. He was a stone-cold killer, but he was no paedophile. He didn't know her name and she didn't know his, so the brief time they spent together had an unreal quality. He could believe he was still the Death God of the Battlefield instead of a washed-up has-been trading on his old reputation while he settled into a cushy job as a secret agent in a snazzy suit without a mosquito or Wutaian poison-blowpipe in sight. He could sit and play cards because he _knew_ he was badass and didn't need to prove it to anyone.

An subordinate approached, adjusting collar and cuffs as he walked. The idiot was too concerned with his appearance and not enough with the murderous look he was walking onto like a sharpened stake. Putz. A lot of the new generation of Turks were putzes. They had no style or panache. Most didn't even know the meaning of 'tragedy', and they definitely hadn't lived it.

He didn't rise, watching the subordinate through his one good eye. He had lost the other a long time ago. People were intimidated by an eyepatch, even if they didnlt want to admit it. It went with the nicknames to add to his general air of mystique and badassery.

"We have movement, sir."

"Have the idiots inside decided to give themselves up?" A vain hope, but it didn't hurt to ask. He didn't bother investing much seriousness in his tone.

The anti-Shinra group had snuck into the mako reactor and taken secret control – and thus had the whole city secretly hostage – but made no move after that. At first he thought they were just stupid. Then he thought they were biding their time, waiting for something – or someone – to make a move before they made theirs. They were the slowest negotiators he had ever dealt with, but his orders were to negotiate, no matter how long it took. Even if it did mean staring at the wall most of the time and turning into a tub of lard as he waited for something to do that didn't make him want to rake his fingers down a cheese grater with boredom.

"We got ourselves a guy sneaking into the reactor through the sewers," said his subordinate.

That made him take notice. "The mole?" Someone inside Shinra had been selling arms to this group on the sly; but surely the goofball wasn't stupid enough to come here, in person, right now, when the shit was about to hit the fan n spectacular fashion? _Never underestimate the level of stupidity in the average human brain, especially when there's money involved_, he thought. What he said was,"Define 'got'."

"Tracking right now, sir."

"So you haven't actually caught this person."

"Uh …"

"And yet you're coming to me, interrupting my game, to tell me there's someone, perhaps an important someone to our mission, sneaking into the reactor – right past our operatives – even though you've made no move to apprehend them."

"We were ... um …" His colleague flushed with embarrassment. Dumb rookie. He almost bowed as he backed off. "I'll take care of it and get back to you, sir."

"You do that."

"You can be real mean sometimes," said the kid when the guy was gone.

He grunted, moving the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. "Who asked you?"

She wrinkled her nose. Then she got up, sidestepped and pirouetted, stopping with one foot raised to admire her new shoes. At some point before the hard times, she had studied ballet. He wondered, briefly, about her life before 'Poppy' bit the big one. Who would she be right now if her father had survived?

Stupid question. Dealing with what-ifs was about as much use as a teaspoon for shovelling chocobo dung. What if he hadn't gone to Wutai? What if he hadn't become a Turk? What if Sephiroth hadn't existed? What if Shinra had never been formed? What if mako's properties had never been discovered? What-ifs were ridiculous because they made you dissatisfied with things as they were. Better to just deal with the here and now.

Except that, for him, the here and now quickly became the here and there. And there. And some over there. And a few pieces over there. And some more over there.

Veld came for him when he didn't report in immediately. He knew his boss was there behind him, peering through the still-clearing dust and smoke. He didn't turn around. He waited for Veld to speak first. There was nothing he wanted to say – nothing he _could_ say. The mission had gone south after the interloper was spotted in the sewers and the terrorists inside the reactor decided it was a good time to test their new weapons on the Turks outside. Somehow, he had lost his team of rookies before his explosives could take care of the enemy. The mole escaped in the melee. Yet somehow, that wasn't what made him feel like someone was digging shrapnel out of his chest with rusty tweezers and no anaesthetic.

Veld looked pointedly at the shoe. He arched both eyebrows. He didn't know about the purchase or the gift. He just saw one small red shoe in the hands of his best operative, surrounding by debris and bodies, but no arrests and no information to lead to one. The shoe was probably all that was keeping Veld from busting a gut.

He held it so tight the new leather creaked and split. His grip was astonishing. He knew he wasn't big brother material. He had always known it, but for a brief sneeze of time, he had almost permitted himself to pretend.

He hadn't held her as she died. There hadn't been enough of her left. Handfuls only. Who could comfort a bit of intestine, a shred of lung, or one charred kidney? Her face was gone. He stared at the wreckage, trying to picture her before she faded and joined the other faceless masses of dead in his memory. Fields of bodies – men, women and children – spread across the back of his mind like a fungus. He recalled soldiers dangling from trees, or knelt at the base, their guts spilled out from ritual suicide when they knew the battle was already lost. There was no quarter there; no reasoning with someone willing to take their own life, and the lives of their loved ones.

_At least red doesn't show the blood so much_, he thought distantly. The shoe with the price tag was missing. The kid hadn't had time to pull it off. You couldn't return only one shoe from a pair.

Veld was on guard. If Veld was ever afraid, he seemed it now. Or perhaps that was just his damaged eye. His eye-patch was gone, exposing the livid purple scars beneath He had fashioned a new patch out of torn fabric from his jacket. He had used his Phoenix Down. Veld would be pissed about their budget, too; the bottom line was sinking lower and lower, and Phoenix Down was expensive.

Veld said his name. he sounded like he was speaking from far away. Tinnitus as well? This day was getting better and better. He had gained a little sister and lost her again in a couple of hours. He had stepped over the bodies of his team, who had looked to him and his experience for guidance to keep them alive. All that, and he hadn't even traded balanced their deaths with the name of the crooked arms dealer. If he ever met that guy again, heads would roll – one in particular, and it wouldn't be his own.

Veld was insistent. The leather of the shoe squeaked as he grip tightened even further. The shoe was tacky now. Blood had dried between it and his palm. His bare hand stuck to the wretched memento. The kid deserved some kind of memorial, but like hell she'd get one. Nobody cared about street-kids in Midgar.

"I will not cry for the sake of my family," he said, searching his memory or something appropriately sentimental, like infantrymen in Wutai had said over their fallen comrades' freshly dug graves. "But instead … uh, mourn this day for their death."

Veld looked at him askance. It was clunky and mawkish, but it would do. Nobody ever said he was good with words. Nobody ever said he was good at anything, except killing, blowing shit up and striking fear into the hearts of his enemies with the mention of his name.

Yeah. And nobody was right, too.


	12. Elfé: Survivor

.

* * *

><p><strong>11. Elfé: Survivor<strong>

* * *

><p>Felicia stumbled through the dust because there wasn't much else she could do. Going back was impossible; everyone was dead, and she had no stomach for looking at the burned bodies who used to be her friends and neighbours. Standing still was just plain stupid. After surviving the inferno that had destroyed Kalm, suicide by starvation wasn't high on her list. Going forward was her only option, so that was what she did. The incessant plodding, scrambling over rocks and out of gullies at least gave her something to concentrate on other than her misery.<p>

The major problem was dehydration. She'd found water, but had nothing to carry it in except an old canteen her traumatised brain had somehow thought to grab when it realised nobody else was alive, and she wouldn't remain so for long if she didn't make tracks. It had been a wrench not to bury anyone, but she was a survivor. There had still been a few hours of good moonlight left. They'd have understood. Telling herself that helped a little.

She barely took in her surroundings anymore. What was the point? Despite her best efforts, the weight of grief had crept in and now made her feet heavy. Moving her legs was like walking on iron stilts, and about as smooth. She lurched more than walked, with only the harsh rasp of her own breathing echoing off the canyon walls.

Finally she trod on an uneven patch of ground, fell, and didn't get up again. She tried to move her arms but couldn't. Her legs kicked weakly, like a beached dolphin trying to get back into the water as the tide went out.

"Father," she murmured.

Of all the names she could've called, his was the most absurd. He hadn't ever come before when she needed him. He was too wedded to his fancy job in Midgar to care about his family back in Kalm. Why would now be any different? Maybe he would even be happy they were gone. Now he could concentrate on being a Shinra goon 24/7. She tried to shape her mother's name instead, but her lips cracked and became wet for the first time in hours – with blood.

"Whoa," said a voice as footsteps ran up. "Whoa man, what the … How the hell did _you_ get way out here?"

She didn't answer. Couldn't anymore. She must've blacked out. Later she could only remember snatches of what happened next – being carried in strong arms, someone putting a damp cloth to her forehead, a deep voice murmuring words she couldn't always make out.

"I'm not your father," it clearly replied once, and she realised she must have spoken, although she couldn't remember it. "Rest. You're safe here."

"Shinra," she croaked. "They came … I thought I'd get to see him, but … but then everything was burning, and he wasn't even there … wasn't …" She squeezed her eyes shut to keep in the traitorous tears. Her father was supposed to have been in the Shinra party who had come for some super secret mission they never told anyone the reason behind. Apparently the residents of Kalm weren't important enough to know what was going on in their own town – or why it had been annihilated.

"I knew it," said another voice.

"Peace, boy."

"But I knew it was Shinra that destroyed Kalm! The whole thing reeks of them. You know it too. It's just their style to get rid of whatever's in their way without any thought for –"

"I said peace. The child doesn't need to hear that sort of thing now."

Something pricked her arm. Felicia faded into unconsciousness, but she didn't forget what had been said. Shinra had burned her town. It had taken all her family, piece by piece, and left her with nothing. Even her childhood memories were tainted by them. It would have destroyed her too, if luck hadn't intervened.

"I hate them," she whispered. "I hate Shinra … so much …"

The younger of the two voices chuckled humourlessly. "She sounds like one of us."

"Be quiet."

"What? She's halfway to being part of AVALANCHE already."

"AVALANCHE," she murmured before darkness claimed her. She'd heard the name before. A two-bit eco-terrorist group with big ideas and a loathing for Shinra. Her father had told her about them. He hated them almost as much as they hated the company he worked for.

"We need to know what she saw, old man."

"You can ask her when she wakes. Maybe she'll be able to tell us who she is, too."

But when she did wake up, she woke up a different person, and refused to use the name her mother always said her father had chosen for her. Kalm was dead. Her mother was dead. Her father might as well have been, as far as she was concerned. And the girl known as Felicia was dead too. She'd died in the fire, just another name on the list of causalities whose bodies were too melted to tell one from another. Not that Shinra would try.

They had to pay. That level of callous destruction couldn't go unpunished. Felicia's own pain couldn't go unavenged.

Except that Felicia was dead, and probably couldn't have done anything anyway. She couldn't even make her father pay attention to her. How was she supposed to be able to do anything against a giant corporation like Shinra?

But AVALANCHE could. And they were more than willing to take in an amnesiac girl found wandering in Cosmo Canyon with nothing but a hatred of their enemy to call her own.

Goodbye frail little Felicia.

Long live Elfé.


	13. Veld: Boss

.

* * *

><p><strong>12. Veld: Boss<strong>

* * *

><p>Veld came around slowly. The slowness told him more about the drugs swimming in his bloodstream than the jab of any needle. He always woke fast and completely. No time for shaking off drowsiness. You had to have good reflexes if you were a Turk.<p>

Correction: you had to have good reflexes if you wanted to _survive_ as a Turk.

"Sir?"

Tseng's voice. A smidgen of Veld's tension eased.

He trusted Tseng almost as much as he trusted himself. The kid wasn't a rookie, but remained a little green in the way he could still be swayed too far by his own emotions. Still, he was getting over that, and he made for that imperfection with competence in all other areas. Tseng might as well have been born in a suit.

He had come a long way from the shivering stowaway Veld discovered on a transport back from Wutai several years earlier. Shinra policy stated he was supposed to report and take care of any security threats without hesitation, not necessarily in that order. He had killed before and had no compunction about following company orders. Even so, Veld had seen something in the boy's blood-encrusted eyes that stayed his hand – a mixture of defiance and pleading overlaid with the exhaustion of someone at the very end of their tether. Veld wasn't a bleeding heart. No sob story would stop him doing his job. It was the raw potential Veld had seen in him that had ultimately saved Tseng's life.

Veld never asked what had happened to Tseng that made him think hiding in a Shinra transport to get out of Wutai was a good idea. That kind of desperation always had a story behind it, but Veld didn't want to know it if it didn't affect aptitude to do the job, and Tseng had never volunteered the information. He could have been a spy. He could have been a suicide bomber, or a child assassin, or the Trojan carrier of a biological attack. Veld had still gone with his gut, rescued the scrawny kid, taken him under his wing and trained him as a Turk as soon as they reached Midgar. Tseng had repaid the action with a dedication and loyalty Veld wished he could bottle and make all his recruits drink.

Tseng had obviously been standing vigil over Veld while he was out cold. The sting of antiseptic hung in the air, alongside noises Veld associated with hospitals and medical facilities. His brain was sluggish, thoughts slow to arrive and muddled when they did.

He had been out of Midgar, he recalled, on some sort of mission. Search and destroy, that was it. Shinra had ordered he and a handpicked group of Turks to track and eliminate a spy they'd unearthed. The spy had absconded with several scraps of research from the science labs, plus research that could prove disastrous if it fell into the wrong hands. Of course Veld wasn't told what the research was of, but the delicacy of the operation needed a Turk touch rather than a platoon of steel-toed grunts and their guns.

He wouldn't dream of asking what had happened. Tseng knew that. He could read one of Veld's silences like a mission brief, and also knew how much he hated failure.

"Target acquired, sir," Tseng said in his usual clipped tones. "Mission objective achieved, but not without collateral damage."

"High level?" Veld's voice wasn't slurred, though the edges were roughened by a dry throat.

Tseng hesitated. That in itself was cause for alarm.

"Tseng?"

"You don't remember, sir?"

The gleam of metal. No, _bone_. Bone like metal, sticking out of … but that couldn't be right. The spy had been carrying phials of biological samples. One had shattered, and where it touched the man's arm the flash had bubbled … changed … morphed into something else. Veld had a flash of bony _erupting_ from the elbow in a curved spike, the wrist spiking outwards and the spine curving in a chorus of sickening cracks. The spy had screamed, writhing on the ground as the Turks cautiously approached, and then pulled something from a hidden jacket pocket.

"An incendiary device," Veld said now.

"A failsafe for if he was caught," Tseng replied. "He was working for an environmental terrorist group we're still working to identify."

"Kamikaze," Veld confirmed as his brain drip-fed him further details. Suddenly he felt cold all over, and it was nothing to do with the thin percale sheet covering him. His face was already slack, for which he was grateful. He didn't know if even his iron self-control would have been able to thwart the look of horror as he remembered where they'd tracked the spy – the reason they'd tackled him early instead of waiting for a better shot. Veld had been trying to prevent … prevent …

An incendiary device.

At the town limits.

"What was the damage to Kalm?"

Tseng didn't answer.

"Report, damn it!"

"The town was razed, sir."

Veld's tongue felt pinned by the weight of the question he had to ask. "Survivors?"

"We lost Berkeley from the unit, sir."

"Civilians?"

"No survivors, sir. Kalm was completely destroyed by the reaction of the device with the samples the target was carrying."

Veld heard him, but as if from far away. No survivors. His house was on the outskirts of town. That was what had made him react when he should have waited. He had wanted to keep that damn spy out of Kalm and so had decided to take him out on the road, in the open, instead of waiting for the clandestine opportunity usually favoured by the Turks. _He_ had ordered the shot that made the man drop his precious cargo. _He_ had ordered this to happen. In trying to protect his family, he had instead consigned them to death.

It was his fault. They were dead, and it was his fault.

Veld was the consummate professional. He was the very best at keeping his emotions under wraps and not letting them interfere with his job. Nonetheless, his eyes blurred with pain. Something was screaming inside his head, a high inhuman sound that had no beginning and no end, just the raw vibration of fresh grief.

He had a sudden vision of Felicia when she was a toddler. He couldn't remember exactly how old. That probably said a lot about him. He remembered the look of concentration on her chubby face, cheeks pink as she leaned forward, stuck her diapered bottom in the air and hand-walked herself onto her feet. She had wobbled as she took her first steps, hands outstretched, not holding onto anything. Then she'd stumbled and plopped back down, but instead of crying, like other children, or just smiling at her achievement, she had frowned and tried again. Not content to rest on her laurels, she hadn't stopped until she was so exhausted she just slumped onto her belly and went to sleep where she was, the way only babies and puppies could. Veld had scooped her up, cradling her in the crook of his arm and marvelling at how something so small and frail could be so strong.

"Just like her father," Emily had said, coming up beside him and leaning on his shoulder to stare down at their daughter. They were still at that stage back then, when touching each other had been as natural as breathing, and arguments were the exception rather than the norm. "He's obstinate as a mule too."

_I made this_. The thought had popped into Veld's head without warning or permission. _This little life. _

Veld wasn't given to admiring the delicacy of baby's fingernails, cooing over tiny noses or toes the way some men did when they became fathers. It had never been his personality, even then. Despite that, the desire to protect his daughter and wife had crashed through him like cymbals. He would die to keep them safe. He would _kill _to keep them safe. Felicia and Emily were his whole world back then. Everything he did, he'd done for them. Every boundary he'd crossed, every rule he'd broken, all the sacrifices had all been to keep them happy and healthy and _safe._

It felt like someone had sucked all the air from the room and stuffed his ears with cotton wool. How long had it been since he went home? How long since he saw Felicia, spent time with her like a father instead of a visiting stranger? How long since his side of the bed went cold? How long had be been promising himself he'd set things right as soon as work gave him the opportunity? There had always been something to take care of in the department, though; somecrisis or other demanding his attention, and he'd reasoned that they'd understand. It was all for their benefit anyway.

His thoughts twisted and writhed like a basket of overturned snakes. None of it showed in his face.

"Sir," Tseng broke in. "You should know that you were also injured in the blast."

"I was?" He didn't feel anything. Not even the tingle of a recent healing. Instinctively he felt out his muscles, searching for aches and pains and what they might tell him. It gave him something to focus on other than the screaming.

One arm was completely numb. Only when he tried to touch it with the other and felt the stump did he understand the true extent of his injuries. Of course. It would have to be something major to land him in here and render him unconscious for any substantial amount of time. If they'd had chance to check for survivors already, a substantial amount might be putting it mildly.

The shock of losing his arm didn't faze him as much as it might have half an hour earlier, however. Now it seemed more like divine retribution for all his mistakes.

"I want a full report."

Tseng stared at him. Since he was on his feet and Veld was in a bed it should have given Tseng more psychological height. It didn't. In years to come he would be able to emulate the trick, but right now he was still on the receiving end, and Veld managed to protect his dignity by erecting a wall of barbwire-topped aloofness. Tseng could see nothing of the rage and pain below his mentor's surface. He wouldn't learn for a long time the true extent of the Kalm disaster.

Tseng drew himself up and nodded. "Yes sir."

Veld returned the nod and watched him go, already thinking about what this meant for his workload. Prosthetics, perhaps? Or one of those new-fangled mechanical limbs. Something would have to be done if he was to get back into the field as soon as possible. Veld hated failure, especially in himself. Turks didn't linger over death. They were strong and the best at what they did. Rather than turn him against his job, his losses and failures as a husband and father made him retreat into what he was good at: being a Turk.

And Turks always got the job done.


	14. Tabitha: Mother

.

* * *

><p><strong>13. Tabitha: Mother<strong>

* * *

><p>It was Kit who discovered Zack was missing. His shout brought Tabitha running, but she screeched to a halt in the doorway of her son's room.<p>

The window was open, threadbare curtains billowing in the night breeze. Zack was a typically messy boy, always being told to pick up after himself and knock the dirt off his shoes before he came in the house. He never did. Consequently the footprint on the windowsill was clearly visible even from across the room.

"His backpack's gone," Kit said. He had his head in the cupboard. Tabitha briefly thought it strange that he'd gone straight there to check. Then she realised it wasn't strange at all. They'd always suspected Zack would leave someday. His personality and dreams were too big for a place like Gongaga. They'd just assumed they'd have a little longer before he went – and that he'd at least let them know he was going.

"The missing food," she murmured.

"What?"

"Some things were missing from the pantry. I thought I'd just mislaid them."

Kit's was distraught. He wasn't the type of man to keep his feelings off his face, and his forehead wrinkled like corduroy as he processed the full implications of these discoveries. "How much was missing?"

"Enough. How many clothes are gone?"

Kit hesitated before answering. "Enough."

"He's …" Tabitha swallowed. "He's not coming back this time."

Zack was ten the last time he ran away. He'd made it as far as the next village, camping out in the open and living off the land because he forgot to take the metal key needed to open the can of ham he'd pilfered from the pantry. That time he disturbed a Fire Snake's nest and would've lost his leg from infection if he hadn't been found. When asked what the hell he'd been trying to achieve, he'd replied that he was trying to get to Midgar, of course.

"Midgar?" Tabitha had echoed in bewilderment.

"Sure. To join SOLDIER. I'm gonna be a proper hero and get paid for it."

The fact he was only ten hadn't struck him as important until he had it pointed out to him – alongside the fact Shinra wouldn't even employ him as a delivery boy until he turned sixteen.

That was four years ago. Tabitha knew Zack could count. He was still too young, but that hadn't stopped him. Zack was resourceful and single-minded when he set his mind to something.

Tabitha realised she shouldn't have assumed they still had time to talk him out of going to Midgar, or at least enjoy him a little longer. Her little boy wasn't so little anymore, but he was still her baby. The urge to protect him was still strong, even though Zack hadn't needed her protection for a long time. She'd known he was bored, and that small-town life chafed against him like a badly fitting halter, but she'd still hoped …

"He'll probably lie about his age," she heard herself saying. "He has his heart set on SOLDIER."

"But why run away like this?" Kit insisted. "Did he think we'd try to stop him?"

"Would we have?"

He couldn't answer.

Tabitha bit her lip and stared at the bare floorboards. Gongaga wasn't a place for the young. It held no allure to someone who wasn't content to plod through life at a snail's pace. She and Kit loved it, though. They loved the quietness, the peace, even if they came at the price of any real future. 'Just go along to get along; could have been the town motto.

Maybe that was why Zack had vanished in the night instead of saying goodbye properly. He wouldn't have wanted to disappoint them, or insult the life they'd chosen just because it wasn't for him. He was an impulsive boy, but not a malicious one, and never prone to the kind of hormone-driven teenage temper tantrums Tabitha a dreaded from the day he hit puberty. Zack was built for adventure and old-fashioned principles like honour and Fighting the Good Fight – all things Gongaga had long-since forgotten about as it fell into age and decay.

None of which dulled the knife-sharp ache of loss she felt when she looked at the open window. She felt like the time a long-eared coyote-cat had come in and stolen her baby from his crib. She'd returned to find it halfway out the window she'd left open while she went to fetch Zack's bottle. The force with which she smacked the animal with the broom had run all the way up her arms and made her shoulders ache, but it had dropped Zack and run off yelping. Tabitha had scooped him up and vowed never to again leave him unattended in a room with an open window.

"He'll come back when he's ready," Kit said with the confidence of those in denial. "You'll see. This SOLDIER business is just some passing fad. When Shinra refuses to take him he'll be back. Then we can put a lock on the window and shut him in his room until he's thirty."

Tabitha said nothing. Not out loud, anyway.

_Please be careful, Zack_, she thought as she held back her tears. _Just please … until you find whatever it is you're looking for in life, please, please be careful._

"Tabitha?"

She swallowed. "Yes." Her voice came out a croak. "He'll be back someday."


	15. Legend: Avenger

.

* * *

><p><strong>14. Legend: Avenger<strong>

* * *

><p>Tseng was a good Turk, but he was too by-the-book. His voice over the comm-link had been fraught – amusingly so.<p>

There was nothing amusing about this; nor about Liner. Liner was an overfed carcass of a man, devoid of morals while pretending he was a saint. He had changed his face and name, assumed a new identity and sheltered under Shinra' protection, but his voice was still the same.

The crumbling building they were inside gave the same resonance as a sewer tunnel. This time a rescue mission had brought them together, with Liner cast in the role of kidnap victim who needed saving. Last time he had been the crooked arms dealer laundering weapons to terrorists with no consideration beyond the bottom line. He could dress in fancy clothes and pretend he was a person of standing, but an asswipe was still an asswipe.

"Are you _insane_?" Liner demanded. "You were sent in here to rescue me from these clowns!" He gestured at the bodies on the floor. "Get me out of here – _now_!"

"You keep avoiding my question." He had kept his voice calm and as low as he could while remaining audible – more difficult than it seemed with the rumble of a collapsing building all around them. He stared at Liner with the intensity of a stalking cat. "Do you remember 1997?"

Tseng was probably having a hissy fit right now. They had been dispatched together to collect Liner, now a legitimate arms dealer, from a squad of mercenaries. He had gone into the danger zone to fetch liner out, leaving Tseng outside. The understanding was that he would defeat the enemy, rescue Liner and complete the mission ASAP, and Tseng would do all the paperwork – every damn piece, including the dry-cleaning bill for his suit. Instead, he had discovered a man he had sworn to get revenge on for years. The conflict of interests wasn't good. He was already on probation. Veld would not be pleased if he screwed up when he had only just been brought back onto the team after an extended 'leave of absence' on the Costa del Sol.

"Are you _trying_ to get us both killed?" Liner demanded. He still hadn't figured it out. Idiot.

"You could save your life by answering me."

A chunk of ceiling broke off. It landed between them. Debris flew everywhere. Linder screamed.

"Please! Please, let's just get out of here. I'll pay you. I'll do anything. I'll answer whatever you want later, but please, get me _out of here_!"

He curled his lip and backed away, towards the only exit. Liner's eyes widened in alarm, and then anger. The scars from that long-ago date with bombs in the enclosed space of a sewer stood out as his neck bulged and his skin reddened. The scars looked purple in the dim light.

"Get back here! Don't you dare leave me!" When he made no move to come back, Liner demanded, "Do Turks usually abandon their duty like this?"

He paused a moment, looking back at the guy. He could still fulfil his mission. He could still save Liner and save himself a lot of aggro. He almost went back – but he still remembered that leftover red shoe. He remembered holding it, still warm and wet with blood and the fire he had put out on the toe-ribbon. The charred ribbon had looked like a dead worm afterwards.

His resolve hardened. Liner had done that. He shouldn't care, but he did.

"Before the Turks realise what's happened, it'll be too late for them to do anything. Nobody is coming to save you."

"No!" Liner shrieked. "You can't leave me here! I'll die! You can't –"

"Do you remember 1997?"

"You bastard! Is that what this is about? You –"

"Do you remember 1997?"

"Whatever! Sure! I remember! Now save me, Turk!"

He narrowed his one good eye. "Right now, I'm not a Turk. I'm a debt-collector, and you got a balance due. You owe me for a crew of rookies and a kid sister." He shut the door behind him, sealing Liner in and sealing his own fate with the same deadbolt. He rapped his knuckles against the door as a goodbye. "I'm the Death God of the Battlefield, you piece of crap."

"No!" Liner shrieked. "No! NO! NOOOO!"

He left without flinching.

As expected, Tseng wasn't happy when he emerged without Liner. "What have you done? What have you –" He broke off to watch the building finally give up and collapse, burying everything and everyone inside. "You just _left_ him?"

He breezed past Tseng. He didn't need to see it. "Tell Veld I'll take whatever punishment's coming my way. And tell him I don't regret a damn thing."

….


	16. Dala: Protector

.

* * *

><p><strong>15. Dala: Protector<strong>

* * *

><p>Dala Strife wrung her hands and fussed with Cloud's hair for the umpteenth time.<p>

"Mo-om," he hissed. "Quit it! I'm not a baby."

"I know _that_. Babies don't go off to Midgar on their own."

Whatever he said, he was still her baby in her heart. Cloud was sixteen years old and already showing muscle definition from the severe training he put himself through. He had convinced Tifa to teach him some things while they were still able to spend time together. After her father banned him from their house, he had continued to practise what he had learned. His thick coat disguised the difference those long hours had made to his physique, but Dala knew her little boy was growing up. Yet when she looked at him she still saw a tiny baby with a tuft of blond hair that stayed resolutely solo until he was over a year old. She remembered tying that tuft with a pale blue silky ribbon, which he had fallen asleep clutching every time he pulled it off. Cloud hated to see his baby pictures as much as Dala loved them – photographs of a past life, when she still had a husband and could tie her son's hair up without him complaining.

Cloud had inherited his father's colouring and tendency towards a slender build. The other boys leaving for Midgar this year were far more muscular. Cloud wasn't the shortest boy in town, and now he definitely wasn't a weakling, but next to the others he looked almost fey. His startling blue eyes only enhanced the impression. It was easy to tell his father had been a foreigner. Cloud had inherited things from his mother's side too, including a tolerance for the cold – something his father never achieved. That flaw had killed him when he tried and failed to gain Nibelheim's acceptance by taking stupid risks in a blizzard.

Dala shook away the unpleasant thoughts. There was enough unpleasantness today. Cloud was leaving for Midgar, of all places. She worried about him. Any mother would, but she had always been extra protective of her boy. Maybe she shouldn't' have coddled him, but she couldn't change that now.

"You're sure you have –"

"Yes, Mom," Cloud snapped. "Whatever it is, I have it, I've done it, I've taken care of it, or I've seen to it. I'm fine. The transport's going to leave without me!"

"Don't be moody with me, young man. You're not too old to put across my knee." Dala's face softened. "I'm not going to see you for a long time. At least let me draw out these last awkward seconds until we're both uncomfortable."

Cloud thrust his hands deep in his pockets. "You're so sentimental, Mom."

She took a measuring look at him. Then she nodded, just once. "You'll do." Pressing her hand against his shoulder, she turned him around and placed a boot against his backside. He stumbled forward when she straightened her knee. "Now get out there and follow those dreams of yours."

_Wherever they take you. Even away from me._

Her throat closed. She felt like she had swallowed a mouthful of syrup.

Cloud looked back. Dala made shooing motions with her hands. He smiled and jogged away, looking back over his shoulder at her waving. He had gone no more than five feet when he cannoned into a burly boy also headed for the transport.

"Watch it, twerp," the boy barked. Then he did a double take. "_You?_ You're going to _Midgar_?"

Cloud hesitated but squared his shoulders. "Yeah. I'm joining Shinra."

The other boy gaped. "As what, a moving target for the rest of us to practise on?"

Cloud flushed. Dala felt the urge to march over and smack the other boy, but restrained herself. Cloud was right; he wasn't a baby anymore. He had to learn to fight his own battles now – and also when _not_ to use his fists. Her coddling had made him extra sensitive about being seen as weak, which had landed him in hot water here in Nibelheim. It was time for them both to do things differently now.

"I'm going to be in SOLDIER," Cloud said, pride and defiance in his voice.

The other boy snorted. "Yeah, right. Only if they start taking in skinny little twerps for the enemy to waste their bullets on."

Cloud's face darkened with extreme dislike. "Screw you, Luxiere." He glanced back at Dala, as if suddenly remembering she was there. Dala gave a smaller wave, fingers crimping when he turned away. "You watch, Luxiere. I'm gonna be in SOLDIER while you mop floors and empty garbage. You'll see."

She watched as her little boy was loaded into the transport and taken away from her. She felt a mixture of pleasure and worry, plus the ever-present concern of every mother that their child might run into difficulties they couldn't handle. Even when your children were old enough to take care of themselves, they never stopped being the damp little babies you first held and promised to protect until your dying breath.

Yet that when Dala's dying breath came, it was full of smoke and searing heat, and her son was nowhere in sight. She knew, as her burning house crashed down around her, that she had failed in her basic duty. After a long absence, Cloud had finally returned to Nibelheim and visited her, telling her how embarrassed he was not to be higher in Shinra after all his boasting. He had been too ashamed to write or come home until now, when his mission demanded he come here. She had reassured him, told him she loved him, and sent him out tonight to visit Tifa and tell her the truth too. He had hemmed and hawed, but eventually gone. Her last sight of him had been his back as he trudged down the street like a convicted man walking to the gallows.

It twisted Dala's heart and made her vision blur with tears that instantly evaporated. Cloud had been outside when that monster, Sephiroth, set light to the village. He had cut down anyone who ran into the street. Cloud was outside because of her. He was a good boy; he would have gone to confront someone hurting his village. He was probably dead now, and it was her fault. Dala hadn't kept her little boy safe. She should have grabbed him before he got on that damned transport. She should have held tight and refused to let him go. Instead, she had sent him into even greater danger than if he had mimicked his father and gone hunting Acid Dragons on Mount Nibel. The worst thing she had ever done was let go of them.

She searched groggily for a way out. Her house had become an inferno. She was dizzy and disoriented. Her head ached and her lungs prickled like they were bleeding inside from all her coughing. Dala fell to her knees, her vision so blurred she never even saw the roof beam that broke off and crushed her.


	17. Aerith: Little Girl Lost

.

* * *

><p><strong>16. Aerith – Little Girl Lost<strong>

* * *

><p>Aerith couldn't see her mom anymore. The crowd was too thick and she was too short. People knocked aside the small girl without even seeing her. Her elbow banged off a drainpipe until she hooked it through and clung on like a piece of flotsam in a fast-moving river.<p>

"Mommy?"

A woman looked down at her without stopping. A man pushing a wheelbarrow filled with old newspapers nearly rolled over her foot. Two teenage boys thought it was funny to yank her ponytail as they passed. It hurt enough to bring tears to Aerith's eyes. She retreated into the shadows of the alley behind her. She knew she shouldn't; she should be trying to get back to the market. Her mother couldn't afford a stall, but she had set up on the corner to sell her crochet and knitting. Before she became absorbed in bartering with stingy customers, she had warned Aerith not to go out of sight.

"We'll call in someplace nice on our way home if you watch our bags and make sure nobody steals them while I'm working."

Aerith honestly meant to follow her mother's instructions to the letter. It was just that when she saw the man selling balloons, she took a few steps out of line to see the giant bumblebee. You didn't get bees in the slums. The only ones she had ever seen were in books, where they had fascinated her alongside pictures of brightly coloured flowers and lush green meadows. In an instant she had been caught up in the crowd, too small and light to fight her way back against the flow of people. She had called out to her mother, but men at the iron-ware stall yelling for customers, women at the food stalls yelling for customers, and customers just plain yelling, had all absorbed her voice like a single raindrop blending into a downpour.

The backs of Aerith's eyes prickled. She blinked rapidly. She wouldn't cry. This was nothing. She was ten now and ten year olds didn't cry just because they were stupid enough to get lost at market. Besides, she wasn't even properly lost – she could see the marketplace, she just couldn't get to it from here. She would just find another way back and hope her mom didn't notice she had been gone, and that nobody stole anything in the meantime. What had they brought with them today? She patted her pocket and found her house-key still there. She didn't own a purse and her mom kept money in a little lockbox while she was trading. Was there anything more valuable for thieves to get at?

The alleyways in this Sector were a maze, and deadly to the unwary. Aerith avoided them out of habit. Her mother preferred to keep her inside as much as possible, so there was no chance of Shinra happening across her by accident and whisking her away. If Aerith did go out, it was to places with lots of witnesses, and always where her mom could keep an eye on her. Her mom even walked her to school and collected her from the gates at the end of the day, which she had done for the entire year she had even allowed Aerith to attend. It was a big deal for them to go to market together. A slip up like this could cost her any future trips out. Aerith's desire to get back fast outweighed her dislike of the alleys, so she cut through the one behind her and turned left. If she kept turning left she would eventually find her way back to where she started. It was only logical. It couldn't be that far.

Tall buildings loomed like menacing, bent-backed old men. Aerith shook her head; that was just her imagination talking. When she came to the end of the alley she turned left, and then left again. The sounds of the market faded. She frowned and stopped to get her bearings. Should she go back? The first stirrings of panic tickled her tummy. Maybe she should try to get home instead of wandering around here. She knew her way home from the market, and even being yelled at and grounded would be better than getting lost forever in this warren.

She retraced her steps, listening for the sounds of people, but when she had made two right turns she still didn't hear them. She stopped again and looked up at the criss-crossed washing lines. None of the laundered sheets or clothes billowed. There was no breeze down here. Instead, people relied on the hot, trapped air to dry things. Droplets from the still-wet fabric dripped on her upturned face. She hadn't walked under any washing lines before.

"Where am I?" The panic in her tummy crept up her throat into her voice. She balled her fists. "Stop that. You obviously went past the turning by accident. Just go back and find it again. Simple enough."

She did go back. And then she went back the other way. She crossed under the same washing lines five times – assuming they _were_ the same lines. Hadn't there been a red bandana tied to one before? Or was it a yellow baby's bonnet? The only colour she could see was a blanket with a suspicious brown stain.

Aerith felt like the city was laughing at her. The boys at school sometimes hid under the industrial wreckage at the end of the schoolyard, which nobody had ever cleared away when the authorities shut down the factory next door. The boys brought torches and told horror stories in the near-pitch blackness, until the bell sent them scurrying back to class. Aerith had only been allowed in once. You had to have an invitation to get into the cramped space. One boy had told a story of monsters that lived in the backstreets of the Midgar slums; creatures that had once been people, until they got so hopelessly lost they reverted to savages to survive. He told how they ate rats and cats, and then cannibalised each other when they grew too weak to catch the swift-footed little creatures. The pictures he painted of mouths crusted with dried blood, matted hair and moans from people who knew they had lost their humanity had made Aerith's flesh crawl. It was all utter garbage, but with the yellow light of a torch under his chin, he had sounded convincing.

Sounds from a cluster of trash cans made her freeze. She backed away when one lid fell off and rolled towards her. Something rose out of the can, moaning. It reached out blindly, something gooey dripping off its long fingers. It was too dark to see, but Aerith imagined blood, thick and dark. A sudden memory rose inside her – not something from a schoolboy story, but an actual memory. Red blood on a purple dress, a train hooting so loud it hurt her ears, someone gripping her hand and then going limp, before her mom gathered her up like she was made of glass and might break at any moment. It wasn't a memory she allowed herself to think about very often. Usually it came when she was asleep and couldn't stop it. This time I loomed in her mind as the man loomed at her in reality. Aerith screamed and ran.

"Wha?" the figure said blearily. "Ow, my head. Huh? Hey, kid! Come back! I won't hurt ya!"

She kept running. She may be a whole ten years old, but she was alone and scared. She skidded on something slimy and crashed into a wall, but she kept running. Her shoulder ached, but she kept running. Her boots were covered in smelly, awful things, but she kept running. A window banged open above her and a head poked out, but she kept running. Someone yelled for her to stop, but she kept running and running and running. She just wanted her mom. She wanted her to gather her up and take her home, and she would never leave the house again, if only she could see her mom again –

She flew out of another anonymous alley like a bullet from a gun – and stopped. This one didn't lead into another backstreet. Instead, it bordered what looked like a town square after a nuclear holocaust. As if the open space wasn't amazing enough, at its centre was the biggest building Aerith had ever seen. Giant spires thrust upwards towards the Plate as if someone had read fairytales about Rapunzel, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty and decided to replicate their towers in real life. Or perhaps they had been planning to use them to climb up to the world above. Either way, the project had been abandoned a long time ago. The place was in terrible disrepair; graffiti covered the walls, the gargoyles guarding the corners were headless, holes glared through the roof and smog had blackened the walls until they looked burnt. Three wooden planks were nailed across the entrance, but even those were beginning to splinter and warp. It was a dreadful and ugly scene – but also the most beautiful Aerith had ever seen.

She didn't know what made it beautiful, but something made her want to keep looking. Almost without her control, her feet took her forward. The planks were high, leaving just enough room for a short girl to pass underneath if she crouched. The doors were heavy and studded with metal rivets, but the left one didn't sit right. There was a tiny gap where the edges refused to line up. Aerith glanced behind her at the maze-like streets and slipped inside.

If the outside was ugly, inside was catastrophic. It looked like a mob had run rampant, breaking and tearing things up everywhere. Large benches were still attached to the floor in rows, but they were covered in debris and dust. A wooden stand with some sort of bowl in its centre had been overturned. Another elaborately carved stand lay twisted at the front of the room. This one had obviously held a large book, judging by the curling yellow pages scattered everywhere. Shattered roof tiles lay at odd intervals, usually below the holes in the ceiling. Nobody had been in here for a long time. When Aerith looked behind her at the door, she saw only her own footprints in dust that was at least an inch thick.

"What is this place?" she said out loud. Her voice seemed smaller than ever in here. She had never even heard of a place like this. Maybe it was so old and disused, everyone had forgotten about it.

The front of the room had a table with a tarnished metal plaque on its side. Aerith crouched beside it, brushing her hand over the letters and reading them without difficulty. Unlike many kids at school, who thought academia was impractical preparation for life in the slums, Aerith had always valued learning for the sake of it. She wanted to know more about the world. Perhaps it was a self-destructive thing; some throwback that made her want to know exactly what she was missing out there, in the world she would probably never see. She ate up what her mother could teach her and held tight to whatever she got out of school, aware that at any moment she could be removed 'for her own safety'.

"Church of the Good Shepherd," she read softly. There were numbers she presumed were dates for when it had been built and who had laid the founding stones, but nothing to signify when it had stopped being used.

She had been in chapels before, but nothing this ornate. People scrimping for scraps rarely splashed out on flashy places to pray, she had found, and religion wasn't common below the Plate. Mostly people seemed to subscribe to the idea that if there was a god, or goddess, or some big power in charge of the universe, it would have given them a way out of their terrible lives instead of dumping them here at birth and ripping them away again in painful, humiliating deaths. If they did believe, it was mostly just so they had something to blame.

Aerith looked around. This wasn't just disused; this place had been trashed. "What happened here?"

The old stones didn't reply. She didn't expect them to. She walked along the row of pews, running her hands over the carvings. She knew she should be trying to find her way back to the market, but the thought of venturing into those backstreets again made her shudder. She sat down, put her head in her hands and tried not to cry. The hushed atmosphere made any sniffles impossibly loud. It was nice and peaceful in here, and she felt a lot safer than she had outside, but thinking of her mom made Aerith want her all the more.

"Hey, kid?"

She fell off the pew and whirled. Concentrating on not crying had left her unaware that someone else had entered the church. The man who had risen out of the garbage like a cannibal-spectre stood a few feet away. He had his palms raised. His hair was in disarray under a red bobble hat and he had a beard like barbed wire, but his voice was soft and his eyes, when she met them, were kind.

"Don't worry," he reassured her. "I ain't gonna hurt ya. You dang near scared the crap outta me when you screamed an' ran off like that." He patted his backside. "Literally. I thought you was hurt or summat." He regarded her with concern. "You ain't hurt, are ya?"

Slowly she shook her head.

"Good." He peered again, as if he needed glasses to see distances but didn't have any. "You're dressed too dang nice for this neighbourhood. You lost?"

She considered lying. A funny feeling made her stop before she opened her mouth to give voice to the lie. In the end she nodded. "I need to get to the market," she murmured. Why was she telling him? Never talk to strangers, her mom had said. Strangers could easily be Shinra goons waiting for an opportunity to grab her.

The man nodded. "Thought it might be summat like that. Lil' thing like you shouldn't be around this neighbourhood. Bad stuff happens around here – stuff you don't want any part of, sweetie. Now, you ain't got no reason to trust me, but if you like, I could take you back to the market. I ain't got much call to go there myself, but I k now where it's at." He shrugged, like it was no bother if she said no, but flickers across his eyes told her he would be hurt. This was a man who was used to being disregarded by everyone. His offer was made with a kindness he had rarely been shown in life.

It was one of those sudden revelations Aerith sometimes got about people but could never explain. It started as a tickle in the bottom of her brain, above the roof of her mouth. Sometimes it made her want to cough, but today her nose also tingled, and not from his stench. The tingly thought rose into the centre of her mind, where it refused to be ignored. He was a good man. He was a trustworthy man, too, if she would show him a little trust so he could prove himself.

"I … I'd like that," she said, a little frightened of herself. She always was when thoughts like that appeared. Where did they come from? Her mom always went shifty-eyed when she mentioned them, so she didn't mention them very often. Life was simpler that way, if less reassuring.

The man nodded nonchalantly, but his shoulders lost some of their tension. "The name's Joe. Used to be Joe Bailey; sometimes it's Joe Hobo, but generally it's just Joe." He rubbed his hand on his coat. Aerith saw that what she had thought were bloodstains were in fact oil. His hands were black with it and whatever else had been leaking out of the garbage that had made his bed. He reeked of old beer and something cabbage-y; the stale smells of someone who had no bathed in a long, long, _long_ time. She had been terrified of him before, and should still be, but like the ugly old church she somehow wasn't. In the light, Joe was just a man. He glowed with good intentions the way Aerith's mom had on a train platform a long time ago.

Aerith stepped forward without fear, resolving to come back to this church when her mom had finished grounding her. "Hello, Joe. My name's Aerith."


	18. Zack: Rebel

.

* * *

><p><strong>17. Zack: Rebel<strong>

* * *

><p>Zack tried not to look intimidated. It was difficult. Mostly he looked like he was about to burst out laughing, which would have been totally inappropriate, given the circumstances. He had a bad habit of laughing when he was nervous.<p>

"So," said the tall man who had owned the room five seconds after he entered it. "You're the infamous Zack Fair."

Zack stared straight ahead. If he focussed on the bricks, maybe he would look less like he was about to pass one of them. "Sir. Yes, sir."

"At ease, cadet. You're not in the field now." The taller man raised his eyebrows. "Not that being out there seems to make much difference to you."

Zack's heart, currently swimming around in his stomach, plummeted into his boots. "Sir." If in doubt, show respect. That was what the recruitment officer had said when he escorted Zack's batch of wide-eyed newbies through the network of Shinra corridors on their first day. Zack now knew the route had been deliberately circuitous, taking them past labs, boardrooms and display cases filled with trophies and photos of brave men receiving medals. The route had probably been mapped out to daunt them, so officers could judge their reaction to the enormity of Shinra behind one-way mirrors in the main hall.

Half of those newbies had fallen at the first hurdle. More had left Shinra before getting off the lowest rung of training. Now those who had stuck it out were nearing the decision-making stage, where they needed to either stick with regular military work, specialise in a field to progress to officer level, or find sponsors for the SOLDIER programme. Zack had always known the third option was for him – at least until now. Right now his future wasn't looking so rosy.

"Your scores are all very high," said the man.

"Sir."

"Exceptionally high, in fact."

"Sir."

"Your record has been exemplary up to now. A couple of side-notes about overconfidence, but nothing truly unfavourable."

"Sir."

"So what changed?"

Zack swallowed. The lump stayed lodged in his throat. He had a feeling like being at the edge of a sheer cliff, above a canyon of spikes, balanced on a rapidly crumbling ledge. "Sir, circumstances were not optimal for following orders to the letter, sir. I took the initiative, sir."

"Rookies aren't supposed to take the initiative, cadet."

"In retrospect I can see that, sir, but –" Zack weighed his words. _Screw it_, he thought. _I'm probably about to be kicked out anyway. Or court martialled. Either way, what can telling the truth hurt now?_ "It seemed like a good idea at the time, sir."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," the man deadpanned. He consulted his paperwork. "Hitting your commanding officer over the head, ordering your fellow recruits around in his place, requisitioning firearms you were not yet qualified to carry and using some … interesting but unauthorised weapons of your own creation; all that seemed like a good idea at the time?"

"Yes, sir. Although, to be fair, Captain Wesson knocked himself out."

"That's not what it says in his report."

"Sir, if I may speak freely, Captain Wesson is a very proud man. I don't think he's eager for it to get around that he turned around to march dramatically away from me and walked into the open door of his truck, sir. Especially since he was the one who left it open when he jumped out to yell at me, sir."

"He had to have fourteen stitches in his head."

"It was supposed to be a very dramatic exit, sir."

"I see. And the firearms?"

"We were in sand-wyrm country, sir, and we had received several reports of sightings in the area. As you know, sir, sand-wyrms are vicious and, unlike flighted dragons, often attack unprovoked. In the absence of the Captain, we needed to defend ourselves, and I had prior experience with sand-wyrms. They used to live in the canyons near my home village, so I was the most experienced of our unit. I figured I had the best chance of getting everyone out of there in one piece, sir."

"And the Lieutenant?"

"He hadn't accompanied us, sir. He had, uh, bowel trouble before we left Shinra." Something about bad shrimp from the cafeteria. Zack had tried their seafood once and sworn never to try it again. Ever. "Since it was only supposed to be practise manoeuvres, the Captain thought we could manage without anyone as his second in command."

"So you decided you were the best of the job."

"Actually, sir, the other recruits picked me after I, uh, took care of a sand-wyrm that attacked the Captain's vehicle."

"Took care of?"

"Sir, I was riding in our food supply truck. I grabbed some flour and other supplies, mixed them in a coffee tin and threw it at the enemy, sir."

"Ah, a homemade explosive. Impressive, if unorthodox and highly unsanctioned. Couldn't you just shoot the thing?"

"Sir, to take down a sand-wyrm with a regular firearm you would have to be standing on its head with your gun jammed into one of its eyeballs, sir. Explosives are marginally more effective. I got lucky when I threw mine right into its open mouth."

"Now I see where the unauthorised weapons come into it."

"Actually, sir, that might be referring to the Hoopla Cactus Bombs. They came afterwards."

"Excuse me?"

"I spotted some Hoopla Cacti at the side of the road. Their interior is highly flammable, especially if mixed with strong acid, such as sand-wyrm venom. We extracted the teeth of the dead worm and cut down the cacti in case we were attacked again en route, since I'd used all the relevant kitchen supplies. We made shallow cuts in the cactus limbs so we could push the teeth into them before throwing the bombs at any attacking worms, sir. The time lag for the venom squeezing out was enough that we weren't blown up before they hit their targets. After that it was mostly just luck that got us home intact. Uh, sir."

For a long moment the man just stared at him. Zack stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back. If he had moved, his cuffs would have jingled. Rather than be hailed as a hero, he had been disarmed and taken into custody when they arrived back in Midgar. Apparently Captain Wesson had recovered enough to radio ahead and warn the authorities of their arrival.

"You are really something, Cadet Fair."

"Sir, that doesn't sound like such a good thing, sir." Zack attempted once again to swallow the lump. Once again it refused to leave. Instead, it rose to pulse against the backs of his eyes too.

Everything was going down the toilet. Maybe he should have just let the giant, razor-fanged, iron-skinned sand-wyrms eat him back in the friggin' desert. He sure couldn't go home after this. He had promised himself he would contact his parents as soon as he graduated from basic training and got onto the SOLDIER programme. Anything less, after what he had put them through, would have been unacceptable.

The man sighed and circled a finger, gesturing for Zack to turn around. Zack assumed he was going back into his cell. Instead, he felt his cuffs being removed.

"Sir?"

"You applied for the SOLDIER programme, didn't you?"

"Uh, yes sir?"

"Took the test and aced it."

"I didn't actually know that, sir."

"Well you do now." The man physically turned Zack to face him. "It said on your record that all you needed was a sponsor. Up to now, folks were lining up to fill that role."

"That 'up to now' suggests they aren't anymore, sir."

The man shrugged. "You only need one." He stuck out his hand. "I've never actually sponsored anyone before. Never saw myself as mentor material, but you … you really are something else, Cadet Fair."

Zack stared at the proffered hand, then at the man's face. The man's serious mouth was curved into a slight smile. "You mean you're not kicking me out?"

"SOLDIER isn't just about following orders. It's about staying true to your prime directives: protect those weaker than you, defend those who can't defend themselves, and preserve your honour in all you do. You acted honourably, if rashly. You were willing to sacrifice your own career to make sure your comrades got home safely when a situation turned unexpectedly sour. Like those grapes Captain Wesson is carrying right now, after I told him I was going to sponsor you."

Zack continued to stare.

"It's customary to shake someone's hand in a situation like this."

"Uh, yes! Sir! Yes, sir!" Zack clasped the hand and shook it enthusiastically. "Thank you, sir!"

"One thing, though."

"Sir?"

"Stop calling me 'sir'. The name's Angeal."


	19. Kunsel: Casualty

.

* * *

><p><strong>18. Kunsel: Casualty<strong>

* * *

><p>"No!"<p>

The stink of burnt flesh and something more acrid was overpowering. Zack hurtled across the open ground, sword flashing red. He didn't even consider that there may be more monsters lurking behind the rocks. He didn't think that he wasn't strong enough to defeat it alone. All he saw was the one towering over the fallen figure.

"Zack!" he heard Angeal yell.

For once, he ignored his mentor. He had to get there in time. He had to –

"Zack, get down!"

Something in Angeal's order got through. Zack hit the dirt. Milliseconds after he did, a blast of fire magic detonated and swept over his head, incinerating the monster he had been heading towards. The escaped experiment shrieked, but the sound died quickly. The air crackled, the smell even thicker than before. Zack leapt to his feet and covered the last bit of distance.

He dropped to his knees, heedless of the sticky mess staining his pants. Bits of flambéed monster stuck to the fabric, staining it green and black. Sheathing his sword in the harness on his back, Zack cradled the fallen figure.

"Kunsel?" he enunciated like it would help. "Can you hear me?"

Kunsel groaned. He was alive, but barely. His face was a mess of green slime and red flesh. The skin across his forehead actually bubbled. His ribcage had been caved in when the monster kicked him with one powerful hind leg. Whatever Hojo had made the thing for, Zack didn't know and didn't care. He didn't care that his orders had been to bring it in alive. He didn't care that both he and Angeal were going to be in big trouble for disobeying. He _did_ care that a squadron of Third Class SOLDIERs had been sent out to bring it in and were now scattered in pieces across the desert. He _did_ care that Hojo was going to care more about his damn experiment than the lives of those men. He _did_ care that his friend was dying in his arms because he and Angel hadn't been dispatched in time to salvage the situation the moment it went south.

Zack was aware of someone coming up behind him. He turned his head. "Angeal?"

Angeal's expression was grim. "Do you have your Phoenix Down?" They were each issued with a single magical healing feather. SOLDIERs were preternaturally disposed towards fast healing, but they still required time. Sometimes, out in the field, that just wasn't an option. Angeal had already used his today when Zack saw what was happening to the Third Classes, ran in without thinking, and got his belly opened as payment for letting his emotions dictate his actions.

Zack nodded and fumbled in his pouch. He slapped the feather onto Kunsel's skin and willed it to sink in. Phoenix Down was only absorbed when there was still a chance the recipient would survive. For a moment nothing happened. Zack's heart seized up. Then, thankfully, the feather melted and Kunsel's entire body glowed with golden light. It made Zack's hands tingle through his leather gloves. When it faded, Kunsel's chest was the correct shape and his left arm no longer bent at an unnatural angle. The skin was still stained where bone had poked through only moments before. A patch of pink scar tissue was the only indicator of the horrific injury. Most of Kunsel's face was whole, too, but as with his arm, the magic had not totally healed him. All around his eyes and from his forehead into his hairline, Kunsel's skin was pockmarked and reddened with new scars. The experiment's acidic blood had left its mark; almost like it was flipping Zack's the bird from beyond the grave.

"How?" Zack ground out. "How could that thing get loose? How did this happen?"

"Come on," Angeal said without answering his questions. "We have to check for more survivors." He didn't invest much conviction in his tone. You just had to look at the blood-soaked dirt to know there weren't any more. "I'll radio for a chopper to fetch this Third Class."

"His name," Zack said, "is Kunsel." He shut his eyes against the sight of Kunsel's destroyed face. "And he's my friend."

At that moment, Zack made a promise that would echo down the years, influencing his actions for the rest of his life. He resolved that he would never again let anything so devastating happen to someone he cared about. If he was able to stop it, he would, no matter what. Even if the consequences for himself were dire, he couldn't deal with feeling like this: like he had betrayed the central tenets of being a SOLDIER; like he had failed.

_I promise, _he thought fiercely. _Never again. Never, ever again._


	20. Elmyra: Momma Bear

.

* * *

><p><strong>19. Elmyra: Momma Bear<strong>

* * *

><p>Elmyra knew Aerith was seeing someone long before her daughter actually admitted it. Though she hadn't actually given birth, long years of playing the role meant Elmyra had developed the intuition of a mother. You couldn't fool your mom about stuff like that. Every teenager in the history of the universe thinks they can put one over on their parents, but they're always wrong, and Aerith was no exception. Yet rather than confront her and possible start an argument that didn't need to be started, Elmyra decided to wait. Aerith would tell her in time, she was sure.<p>

Her protective instincts sharpened, however, when Aerith continued to hide his existence. Any boy she didn't feel able to admit to could not be one who was good for her. Aerith had never been into the whole 'bad boy' thing, like some girls her age. Girls like that just wanted the thrill of being wild for a while, before retreating back into their boring lives. Those who didn't retreat didn't tend to last long. In the slums 'bad boys' ranged from petty thieves to full-out drug dealers and gangbangers. Though she couldn't imagine her daughter with anyone like that, Aerith's caginess was new and Elmyra didn't like it.

There was nothing else for it. She poked and prodded, until 'Yes, Mom, I have a boyfriend!' rang through their little house.

"Invite him to dinner sometimes, sweetheart." _So I can vet him and see if he's worth even half of you._

"He's not really the come-to-dinner type, Mom."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" _Please not some tattooed gang member. PLEASE not some tattooed gang member._

"He's … nice," Aerith said evasively. "But his job doesn't give him much free time."

"So he's too good to eat dinner with us during that precious free time?"

"It's complicated."

"Simplify it for me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"You'll get mad."

"Have I ever gotten mad over who you date?"

"Mom, you can count the boys I've dated on one hand – and you don't even need to use all the fingers."

Elmyra couldn't deny she was a little pleased Aerith's dating record was so sparse. With Turks periodically knocking on their door, trying to coerce her to accompany them back to Shinra, Aerith's single status was partly because few young men wanted to risk the company's wrath by giving her a reason to stay if they wanted her to go. Jiro and Shotaro, the two boys who had asked her out anyway, hadn't understood Aerith's quirky ways and dropped her like a hot coal when she wouldn't sleep with them. Elmyra had been so proud, but then divided over Aerith's reason why.

"I'm saving myself for the one I love," she said blithely, with the aplomb of someone who has heard and read hundreds of romantic stories and fairytales, but had no experience of a real relationship and how difficult it could be.

"Not marriage?" Elmyra said hopefully.

Aerith considered this, head tilted to one side like a puppy contemplating a particular high step between it and its food bowl. "I supposed I'll end up marrying the one I love, so sure, marriage too."

"And you didn't love either of those boys?"

"Ick, Mom! Jiro's hands were like waterfalls with all that sweat, and Shotaro kept telling me how great he is because his dad works for the company trash collectors and you just have a market stall."

Elmyra kept up her requests for Aerith's boyfriend to join them for dinner, or just visit, or stop by sometime – anything to get him into her line of sight so she could assess him. She saw Aerith going about dreamy-eyed and daydreaming more and more – not her usual daydreams, which could turn into waking nightmares, but the kind of doe-eyed teenage fantasising Elmyra used to do when she first met her husband. Things were getting desperate: she _needed _to meet this boy, and soon!

Once his identity came out, however, part of her wished she was still in the dark.

"Mom?" Aerith said to her one day, standing in the doorway and scuffing her feet like she expected to be told off. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, sweetheart." Elmyra set aside her mending and gave her daughter her full attention.

"Can … my boyfriend … can he, um …" Aerith took a breath as if for strength. Elmyra realised with alarm that she had been crying. "Someone really close to him just died and he's not coping very well. Can he, um, come over and stay for the weekend? I don't want him to be on his own right now. I'm … I'm a bit scared he might … do something. Something stupid."

Elmyra heart swelled with pride. "Certainly, he can stay. Poor thing. When would he arrive?"

Aerith dipped her head. "He's waiting outside."

Not letting her smile slip, Elmyra nodded. She got to her feet, brushed off her skirts and wished they didn't have to boil water on the stove to pour into a tin tub when they wanted a bath. It was so much effort she usually opted for a standing-up scrub with a sponge and some carbolic soap, which did the trick when you were working, but not when you were meeting your daughter's beau for the first time. Her hair felt stringy, her skin sallow and slick with grease. She fixed the wisps of hair that had worked loose from her bun and went into the kitchen while Aerith fetched him inside.

Elmyra's eyes nearly fell out of her head. He was tall, with a shock of black hair and shoulders like a bodybuilder. Scabs from a pair of cuts crisscrossed his cheek, but didn't dent his good looks in the slightest. His features were even, his eyes electric blue, and he had a soft mouth that was pressed into a sad downturn. What caught her attention most, however, was his SOLDIER uniform.

"Mom." Aerith appeared from behind him, her eyes pleading. "This is Zack. Zack, this is my mom."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Gainsborough." He offered one gloved hand. His tone was polite but exhausted.

Elmyra stared at the proffered hand. She couldn't take it. What was Aerith thinking, bringing someone like this into their home? No wonder she had been cagey. This was worse than if she was dating a Turk. It was worse than if she had accepted that Tseng man's advances. This was a SOLDIER – one of Shinra's fearsome guard dogs. These men hunted monsters for a living! No wonder he was freakishly muscular. The rumours of SOLDIERs that circulated the sectors usually included magic and stories of drugs than made them stronger than an entire tug-o-war team and twice as aggressive.

Except that Zack wasn't aggressive at all. His eyes were rimmed red, the skin below them puffy. He had been crying too, and a lot more than Aerith. His massive shoulders were slumped. Everything about him yelled 'I am hurting' but also 'I don't want to harm anyone'. Despite his build, he couldn't be much older than Aerith. For some reason, Elmyra had always thought of SOLDIERs as ageless creatures dedicated to wholesale slaughter. Replace that uniform with civvies and this Zack boy was just that: a boy. And a grieving boy, at that.

"Mom?" Aerith said in a tiny voice. Aerith wasn't an idiot. She could be too incisive for her own good, sometimes. She hadn't gone with the Turks any time they'd tried to force her. She wouldn't date someone truly dangerous or evil.

Swallowing hard and suppressing her own fear, Elmyra took Zack's hand and shook it. "It's good to finally meet you, Zack. Aerith says you need a place to stay for a few days?"

"I told her I'd be fine," he protested awkwardly. "I can just –"

"Zack, no," Aerith said firmly. "Please, you need to be with people right now." She shot her mother a look. "People who care about you and how you're feeling, not how soon you'll be over Angeal and back on the job."

Pain flashed behind Zack's eyes. Whoever this person was whom he had lost, there was a bond there that had shattered him when it broke. Elmyra remembered pain like that. She had gained Aerith and had her new daughter to concentrate on in the aftermath. Now it seemed Aerith was trying to help Zack the same way.

"You must stay with us," Elmyra said decisively. "We'd be happy to have you. Just so long as you don't mind helping me prepare dinner."

He blinked at her. "Uh …"

"Have you ever cooked before?"

"Not … successfully."

"Well then, now is an excellent time to learn."

Aerith pressed close to her when Zack went to wash his hands. His huge body in their small kitchen looked so out of place, it was almost comical. "Thanks, Mom."

Elmyra hugged her tight. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

* * *

><p><em><strong>To Be Continued in 'A Triangle of Many Sides: Book Two'<strong>_

* * *

><p>.<p> 


End file.
